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THE EXCURSION 



PRESENTED BY 
JUDGE an4 SIS. ISAAC R. B1TF 

WASHINGTON. D. C. 

-Y93t) 



1 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



NEW YORK: 

C. S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY, 

boston: 

J. H. FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON STREET. 

1850. 



I l\ 050 






XSift 

Judge 3n«' Mrs. I R.. Hftt 

June 23 1^36 



CONTENTS 



page 

Dedication .......... 7 

Preface to the Edition of 1814 9 

THE EXCURSION: 

Book I.— The Wanderer 15 

II— The Solitary 49 

III. — Despondency 81 

IV. — Despondency Corrected 115 

V.— The Pastor 159 

VI.— The Church-Yard among the Mountains . . 195 

VII.— The above, continued 237 

VIII.— The Parsonage . 275 

IX. — Discourse of the Wanderer, and an Evening Visit 

to the Lake .297 



TO THK 

Sight Honorable WILLIAM, EARL OF LONSDALE, K. G. 

ETC. ETC. 

Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer ! 
In youth I roamed, on youthful pleasures bent 
And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. 
— Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
Before thee Lonsdale, and this Work present, 
A token (may it prove a monument !) 
Of high respect and gratitude sincere, 
Gladly would I have waited till my task 
Had reached its close ; but Life is insecure, 
And Hope full oft fallacious as a dream : 
Therefore, for what is here produced, I ask 
Thy favor ; trusting that thou wilt not deem 
The offering, though imperfect, premature. 

William Wordsworth. 
Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, 
July 29, 1814. 



PREFACE 

TO THE EDITION OF 1814. 



The Title-page announces that this is only a portion 
of a poem ; and the reader must be here apprised that 
it belongs to the second part of a long and laborious 
Work, which is to consist of three parts. The Author 
will candidly acknowledge that, if the first of these had 
been completed, and in such a manner as to satisfy his 
own mind, he should have preferred the natural order 
of publication, and have given that to the world first ; 
but, as the second division of the Work was designed to 
refer more to passing events, and to an existing state of 
things, than the others were meant to do, more continu- 
ous exertion was naturally bestowed upon it, and greater 
progress made here than in the rest of the poem; and 
as this part does not depend upon the preceding, to a 
degree which will materially injure its own peculiar in- 
terest, the Author, complying with the earnest entreaties 
of some valued Friends, presents the following pages to 
the Public. 

It may be proper to state whence the poem, of which 
the Excursion is a part, derives its Title of The Re- 
cluse. — Several years ago, when the author retired to 
his native mountains, with the hope of being enabled to 

9 



x PREFACE. 

construct a literary work that might live, it was a reason- 
able thing that he should take a review of his own mind, 
and examine how far Nature and Education had quali- 
fied him for such employment. As subsidiary to this 
preparation, he undertook to record, in verse, the origin 
and progress of his own powers, as far as he was ac- 
quainted with them. That Work, addressed to a dear 
Friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, 
and to whom the Author's Intellect is deeply indebted, 
has been long finished ; and the result of the investiga- 
tion which gave rise to it was a determination to com- 
pose a philosophical poem, containing views of Man, 
Nature, and Society ; and to be entitled the Recluse ; 
as having for its principal subject the sensations and 
opinions of a poet living in retirement. The preparatory 
poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the 
Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened 
to hope that his faculties were sufficiently matured for 
entering upon the arduous labor which he had proposed 
to himself; and the two Works have the same kind of 
relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as 
the ante-chapel has to the body of a gothic church. 
Continuing this allusion, he may be permitted to add, 
that his minor Pieces, which have been long before the 
Public, when they shall be properly arranged, will be 
found by the attentive Reader to have such connection 
with the main Work as may give them claim to be 
likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral re- 
cesses, ordinarily included in those edifices. 

The Author would not have deemed himself justified 
in saying, upon this occasion, so much of performances 
either unfinished, or unpublished, if he had not thought 



PREFACE. xi 

that the labor bestowed by him upon what he has here- 
tofore and now laid before the Public, entitled him to 
candid attention for such a statement as he thinks neces- 
sary to throw light upon his endeavors to please, and, he 
would hope, to benefit his countrymen. Nothing fur- 
ther need be added, thau that the first and third parts of 
The Recluse will consist chiefly of meditations in the 
Author's own person; and that in the intermediate part 
(The Excursion) the intervention of characters speaking 
is employed, and something of a dramatic form adopted. 
It is not the Author's intention formally to announce 
a system : it was more animating to him to proceed in a 
different course ; and if he shall succeed in conveying 
to the mind clear thoughts, lively images, and strong 
feelings, the Reader will have no difficulty in extracting 
the system for himself. And in the meantime the fol- 
lowing passage, taken from the conclusion of the first 
book of The Recluse, may be acceptable as a kind of 
Prospectus of the design and scope of the whole Poem. 

' On man, on Nature, and on Human Life, 
Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
Accompanied by feelings of delight 
Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mixed ; 
And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
And dear remembrances, whose presence soothos 
Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
The good and evil of our mortal state. 
— To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come, 
Whether from breath of outward circumstance, 
Or from the Soul — an impulse to herself— 
I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 



PREFACE. 

And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 

Of blessed consolations in distress ; 

Of moral strength, and intellectual Power ; 

Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 

Of the individual Mind that keeps her own 

Inviolate retirement, subject there 

To Conscience only, and the law supreme 

Of that Intelligence which governs all— 

I sing : — ' fit audience let me find though few !' 

So prayed, more gaming than he asked, the Bard 
In holiest mood. Urania, I shall need 
Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
Descend to earth or dwell in highest heaven 1 
For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
Deep— and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
All strength — all terror, single or in bands, 
That ever was put forth in personal form- 
Jehovah— with his thunder, and the choir 
Of shouting Angels, and the empyreal thrones— 
I pass them unalarmed. Not Chaos, not 
The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out 
By help of dreams— can breed such fear and awe . 
As fall upon us often when we look 
Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man— 
My haunt, and the main region of my song. 
— Beauty — a living Presence of the earth, 
Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
Which craft of delicate Spirits hath compose 
From earth's materials — waits upon my steps ; 
Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
An hourly neighbor. Paradise, and groves 
Elysian, Fortunate Fields— like those of old 
Sought in the Atlantic Main— why should they be 
A history only of departed things, 






PREFACE. xiii 

Or a mere fiction of what never was 

For the discerning intellect of Man, 

When wedded to this goodly universe 

In love and holy passion, shall find these 

A simple produce of the common day. 

— I, long before the blissful hour arrives, 

Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 

Of this great consummation :— and, by words 

Which speak of nothing more than what we are, 

Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 

Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 

To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 

How exquisitely the individual Mind 

(And the progressive powers perhaps no less 

Of the whole species) to the external World 

Is fitted : — and how exquisitely, too — 

Theme this but little heard of among men — 

The external World is fitted to the Mind : 

And the creation (by no lower name 

Can it be called) which they with blended might 

Accomplish : — this is our high argument. 

Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 

Must turn elsewhere— to travel near the tribes 

And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 

Of madding passions mutually inflamed ; 

Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 

Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 

Brooding above the fierc e confederate storm 

Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore 

Within the walls of cities— may these sounds 

Have their authentic comment ; that even these 

Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn !— 

Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st 

The human Soul of universal earth, l 

' Sen Notes at end of the volume. 



PREFACE. 

Dreaming on things to come ; and dost possess 

A metropolitan temple in the hearts 

Of mighty Poets : upon me bestow 

A gift of genuine insight ; that my Song 

With star-like virtue in its place may shine, 

Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 

Itself, from all malevolent effect 

Of those mutations that extend their sway 

Throughout the nether sphere !«— And if with this 

I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 

Contemplated, describe the Mind and Man 

Contemplating; and who, and what he was — 

The transitory Being that beheld 

This Vision ; when and where, and how he lived ; 

Be not this labor useless. If such theme 

May sort with highest objects, then— dread Power! 

Whose gracious favor is the primal source 

Of all illumination — may my Life 

Express the image of a better time, 

More wise desires, and simpler manners; — nurse 

My heart in genuine freedom : — all pure thoughts 

Be with me ;— so shah thy unfailing love 

Guide, and sup|>ort, and cheer me to the endl' 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK FIRST. 



THE WANDERER. 



**v< 



THE WANDERER 



ARGUMENT. 



A Summer Forenoon— The Author reaches a ruined Cottage upon a 
Common, and there meets with a revered friend, the Wanderer, of 
whose education and course of life he gives an account.— The Wan- 
derer, while resting under the shade of the trees that surround the 
Cottage, relates the History of its last Inhabitant. 

'HP ^^ summer, and the sun had mounted high : 

Southward the landscape indistinctly glared 
Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs, 
In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots 
Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 
Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss 
Extends his careless limbs along the front 
Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
A twilight of its own, an ample shade 
Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, 
Half conscious of the soothing melody, 
With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, 
By power of that impending covert, thrown, 
To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 
2* 17 



18 THE EXCURSION. 

Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon 
Under a shade as grateful I should find 
Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. 
Across a bare wide Common I was toiling 
With languid steps that by the slippery turf 
Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse 
The host of insects gathering round my face, 
And ever with me as I paced along. 

Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
The wished-for port to which my course was bound. 
Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, 
Appeared a roofless Hut ; four naked walls 
That stared upon each other ! — I looked round, 
And to my wish and to my hope espied 
The Friend I sought ; a man of reverend age, 
But stout and hale, for travel unimpaired. 
There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 
Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 

Him had I marked the day before — alone 
And stationed in the public way, with face 
Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff 
Afforded, to the figure of the man 
Detained for contemplation or repose, 
Graceful support ; his countenance as he stood 
Was hidden from my view, and he remained 
Unrecognized ; but, stricken by the sight, 
With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon 
A glad congratulation we exchanged 
At such unthought-of meeting. — For the night 
We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 



THE WANDERER. 19 

He by appointment waited for me here, 
Under the covert of these clustering elms. 

We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
In the antique market-village where was passed 
My school-time, an apartment he had owned, 
To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 
And found a kind of home or harbor there. 
He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy boys 
Singled out me, as he in sport would say, 
For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years. 
As I grew up, it was my best delight 
To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
On holidays, we rambled through the woods : 
We sate— we walked ; he pleased me with report 
Of things which he had seen ; and often touched 
Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 
Turned inward ; or at my request would sing 
Old songs, the product of his native hills ; 
A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, 
Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
As cool refreshing water, by the care 
Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of 

drought. 
Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse : 
How precious when in riper days I learned 
To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 
In the plain presence of his dignity ! 

Oh ! many are the Poets that are sown 
By Nature ; men endowed with highest gifts, 
The vision and the faculty divine ; 



20 THE EXCURSION. 






Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 

(Which, in the docile season of their youth, 

It was denied them to acquire, through lack 

Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 

Or haply by a temper too severe, 

Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 

Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 

By circumstance to take unto the height 

The measure of themselves, these favored beings, 

All but a scattered few, live out their time, 

Husbanding that which they possess within, 

And go to the grave unthought of. Strongest minds 

Are often those of whom the noisy world 

Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 

His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 

But, as the mind was filled with inward light, 

So not without distinction had he lived, 

Beloved and honored — far as he was known. 

And some small portion of his eloquent speech, 

And something that may serve to set in view 

The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 

His observations, and the thoughts his mind 

Had dealt with — I will here record in verse ; 

Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 

Or rise as venerable Nature leads, 

The high and tender Muses shall accept 

With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, 

And hstening Time reward with sacred praise. 

Among the hills of Athol he was born ; 
Where, on a small hereditary farm, 
An unproductive slip of rugged ground, 
His Parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt ; 



THE WANDERER. 21 

A virtuous household, though exceeding poor ! 
Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
And fearing God ; the very children taught 
Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 
And an habitual piety, maintained 
With strictness scarcely known on English ground. 

From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak, 
In summer, tended cattle on the hills ; 
But, through the inclement and the perilous da 
Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, 
Equipped with satchel, to a school, that stood 
Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, 
Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
Of minster clock ! From that bleak tenement 
He, many an evening, to his distant home 
In solitude returning, saw the hills 
Grow larger in the darkness ; all alone 
Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
And travelled through the wood, with no one near 
To whom he might confers the things he saw. 

So the foundations of his mind were laid.. 
In such communion, not from terror free, 
While yet a child, and long before his time, 
Had he perceived the presence and the .power 
Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed 
So vividly great objects, that they lay 
Upon his mind like substances, whose presence 
Perplexed the bodily sense. He had received 
A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, 
With these impressions would he still compare 
All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms ; 



22 THE EXCURSION. 

And, being still unsatisfied with aught 

Of dimmer character, he thence attained 

An active power to fasten images 

Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines 

Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 

The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail, 

While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 

Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 

On all things which the moving seasons brought 

To feed such appetite — nor this alone 

Appeased his yearning : — in the after-day 

Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 

And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 

He sate, and even in their fixed lineaments, 

Or from the power of a peculiar eye, 

Or by creative feeling overborne, 

Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 

Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 

He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 

Expression ever varying ! 

Thus informed, 
He had small need of books ; for many a tale 
Traditionary, round the mountains hung, 
And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, 
Nourished Imagination in her growth, 
And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
By which she is made quick to recognize 
The moral properties and scope of things. 
But eagerly he read, and read again, 
Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied ; 
The life and death of martyrs, who sustained, 
With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
Triumphantly displayed in records left 



THE WANDERER. 23 

Of persecution, and the Covenant — times 

Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour ! 

And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 

A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 

That left half -told the preternatural tale, 

Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 

Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 

Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire, 

Sharp-kneed, sharp- elbowed, and lean-ankled too, 

With long and ghostly shanks — forms which once seen 

Could never be forgotten ! 

In his heart, 
Where Fear sate thus, a cherished visitant, 
Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
By sound diffused, or by the breathing air, 
Or by the silent looks of happy things, 
Or flowing from the universal face 
Of earth and sky. But he had felt the power 
Of Nature, and already was prepared, 
By his intense conceptions, to receive 
Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 
Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
To feel intensely, cannot but receive. 

Such was the Boy — but for the growing Youth 
What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked- - 
Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
Beneath him: — Far and wide the clouds were 

touched, 
And in their silent faces could he read 



24 THE EXCURSION. 

Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 
All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
His animal being ; in them did he live, 
And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
In such access of mind, in such high hour 
Of visitation from the living God, 
Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
Rapt into still communion that transcends 
The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 

A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
then how beautiful, how bright, appeared 
The written promise ! Early had he learned 
To reverence the volume that displays 
The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
All things, responsive to the writing, there 
Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
And greatness still revolving ; infinite : 
There littleness was not ; the least of things 
Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saw. 
What wonder if his being thus became 
Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 
Low thoughts had there no place : yet was his heart 
Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 



THE WANDERER. 25 

Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, 
And whence they flowed ; and from them he ac- 
quired 
Wisdom, which works through patience ; thence he 

learned 
In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
To look on Nature with a, humble heart, 
Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
And with a superstitious eye of love. 

So passed the time ; yet to the nearest town 
He duly went with what small overplus 
His earnings might supply, and brought away 
The book that most had tempted his desires 
While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 
The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
His School-master supplied ; books that explain 
The purer elements of truth involved 
In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
(Especially perceived where nature droops 
And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind 
Busy in solitude and poverty. 
These occupations oftentimes deceived 
v The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 
In pensive idleness. What could he do, 
Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
With blind endeavors ? Yet, still uppermost, 
Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 
Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
In all things that from her sweet influence 
3 



26 THE EXCURSION. 

Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
While yet he lingered in the rudiments 
Of science, and among her simplest laws, 
His triangles — they were the stars of heaven, 
The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
Familiar with forgotten years, that shows 
Inscribed upon its visionary sides, 
The history of many a winter storm, 
Or obscure records of the path of fire. 

And thus before his eighteenth year was told, 
Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
With still increasing weight ; he was o'erpowered 
By Nature ; by the turbulence subdued 
Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope, 
And the first virgin passion of a soul 
Communing with the glorious universe. 
Full often wished he that the winds might rage 
When they were silent : far more fondly now 
Than in his earlier season did he love 
Tempestuous nights — the conflict and the sounds 
That live in darkness. From his intellect 
And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
He asked repose ; and, failing oft to win 
The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 
Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
A cloud of mist, that smitten by the sun 
Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 



THE WANDERER. 27 

And vainly by all other means, he strove 
To mitigate the fever of his heart. 

In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 
Thus was he reared ; much wanting to assist 
The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
And every moral feeling of his soul 
Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 
The keen, 'the wholesome air of poverty, 
And drinking from the well of homely life. 
— But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 
He now was summoned to select the course 
Of humble industry that promised best 
To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
Urged by his Mother, he essayed to teach 
A village-school — but wandering thoughts were then 
A misery to him ; and the Youth resigned 
A task he was unable to perform. 

That stern yet kindly Spirit, who constrains 
The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, 
The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
(Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
Like their own stedfast clouds) did now impel 
His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 
— An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 
A vagrant Merchant under a heavy load 
Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest ; 
Yet do such travellers find their own delight ; 
And their hard service, deemed debasing now, 
Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 



28 THE EXCURSION. 

When squire, and priest, and they who round them 

dwelt 
In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants, 
Or pleased their fancies with the wares he brought. 
Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 
Of his adventurous countiymen were led 
By perseverance in this track of life 
To competence and ease : — to him it offered 
Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 
— His Parents on the enterprise bestowed 
Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
He wandered far ; much did he see of men, 
Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, 
Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 
Essential and eternal in the heart, 
That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 
Exist more simple in their elements, 
And speak a plainer language. 2 In the woods, 
A lone enthusiast, and among the fields, 
Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 
The better portion of his time ; and there 
Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
And liberty of nature ; there he kept 
In solitude and solitary thought 
His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
Of ordinary life ; unvexed, unwarped 
By partial bondage. In his steady course, 
No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
No wild varieties of joy and grief. 



THE WANDERER. 25 

Unpccupied by sorrow of its own, 

His heart lay open ; and, by nature tuned 

And constant disposition of his thoughts 

To sympathy with man, he was alive 

To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 

And all that was endured ; for, in himself 

Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, 

He had no painful pressure from without 

That made him turn aside from wretchedness 

With coward fears. He could afford to suffer 

With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came 

That in our best experience he was rich, 

And in the wisdom of our daily life. 

For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 

He had observed the progress and decay 

Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 

The history of many families ; 

How they had prospered ; how they were o'erthrown 

By passion or mischance, or such misrule 

Among the unthinking masters of the earth 

As makes the nations groan. 

This active course 
He followed till provision for his wants 
Had been obtained ; the Wanderer then resolved 
To pass the remnant of his days, untasked 
With needless services, from hardship free. 
His calling laid aside, he lived at ease ; 
But still he loved to pace the public roads 
And the wild paths ; and, by the summer's warmth 
Invited, often would he leave his home 
And journey far, revisiting the scenes 
That to his memory were most endeared. 
— Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped 



tO THE EXCURSION. 

By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
Observant, studious, thoughtful and refreshed 
By knowledge gathered up from day to day ; 
Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 

The Scottish Church, both on himself and those 
With whom from childhood he grew up, had held 
The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 
This he remembered in his riper age 
With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
But by the native vigor of his mind, 
By his habitual wanderings out of doors, 
By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 
Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
Was melted all away ; so true was this, 
That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 
Who to the model of his own pure heart 
Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired, 
And human reason dictated with awe. 
— And surely never did there live on earth 
A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 
And teasing ways of children vexed not him ; 
Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale, 
To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 
Obtain reluctant hearing. 

Plain his garb; 
Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
For sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 
Whom no one could have passed without remark. 



THE WANDERER. 31 

Active and nervous was his gait ; his limbs 

And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 

Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek 

Into a narrower circle of deep red, 

But had not tamed his eye ; that, under brows 

Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought 

From years of youth ; which, like a Being made 

Of many Beings, he had wondrous skill 

To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 

Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. 



So was He framed ; and such his course of life 
Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 
The prized memorial of relinquished toils, 
Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, 
Screened from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, 
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
The shadows of the breezy elms above 
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. 
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose 
And ere our lively greeting into peace 
Had settled, " 'Tis," said I, " a burning day : 
My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems, 
Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 
Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb 
The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 
Upon the public way. It was a plot 
Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 



32 THE EXCURSION. 

Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they 

passed, 
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, 
Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, 
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 
Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well 
Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 
My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot 
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 
Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench ; 
And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, 
I yet was standing, freely to respire, 
And cool my temples in the fanning air, 
Thus did he speak. " I see around me here 
Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend, 
Nor we alone, but that which each man loved 
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 
Even of the good is no memorial left. 
— The Poets, in their elegies and songs 
Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 
And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak, 
In these their invocations, with a voice 
Obedient to the strong creative power 
Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
That steal upon the meditative mind, 
And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 
And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 






THE WANDERER. 

Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
When, every day, the touch of human hand 
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
In mortal stillness ; and they ministered 
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, 
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
To the soft handling of the elements : 
There let it lie — how foolish are such thoughts ! 
Forgive them ; — never — never did my steps 
Approach this door but she who dwelt within 
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
As my own child. Oh, Sir ! the good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, 
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
From that forsaken spring ; and no one came 
But he was welcome ; no one went away 
But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 
The light extinguished of her lonely hut, 
The hut itself abandoned to decay, 
And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 

I speak," continued he, " of one whose stock 
Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
She was a Woman of a steady mind, 
Tender and deep in her excess of love ; 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 
Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
A Being, who by adding love to peace 



34 THE EXCURSION. 

Might live on earth a life of happiness. 

Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 

The humble worth that satisfied her heart : 

Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 

Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 

That he was often seated at his loom, 

In summer, ere the mower was abroad 

Among the dewjr grass — in early spring, 

Ere the last star had vanished. — They who passed 

At evening, from behind the garden fence 

Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 

After his daily work, until the light 

Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 

In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 

In peace and comfort ; and a pretty boy 

Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven. 

Not twenty years ago, but you I think 
Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came 
Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add 
A worse affliction in the plague of war : 
This happy Land was stricken to the heart ! 
A Wanderer then among the cottages, 
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
The hardships of that season : many rich 
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 
And of the poor did many cease to be, 
And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged 
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
Went struggling on through those calamitous years 
With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 



THE WANDERER. 35 

When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, 

Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 

He lingered long ; and, when his strength returned, 

He found the little he had stored, to meet 

The hour of accident or crippling age, 

Was all consumed. A second infant now 

Was added to the troubles of a time 

Laden, for them and all of their degree, 

With care and sorrow : shoals of artiz ans, 

From ill-requited labor turned adrift, 

Sought daily bread from public charity, 

They, and their wives and children — happier far 

Could they have lived as do the little birds 

That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite 

That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks ! 

A sad reverse it was for him who long 
Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood, 
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — 
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
In house or garden, any casual work 
Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty, 
He mingled, where he might, the various tasks 
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
But this endured not ; his good humor soon 
Became a weight in which no pleasure was : 
And poverty brought on a petted mood 
And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
And he would leave his work — and to the to^ 



36 THE EXCURSION. 

Would turn without an errand his slack steps ; 
Or wander here and there among the fields. 
One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 
And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
He tossed them with a false unnatural joy : 
And 't was a rueful thing to see the looks 
Of the poor innocent children. ' Every smile,' 
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
' Made my heart bleed.' " 

At this the Wanderer paused ; 
And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
He said, " 'T is now the hour of deepest noon. 
At this still season of repose and peace, 
This hour when all things which are not at rest 
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
With tuneful hum is filling all the air ; 
Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek ? 
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, 
And in the weakness of humanity, 
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away ; 
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears ; 
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ! 



He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone : 
But, when he ended, there was in his face 
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
That for a little time it stole away 
All recollection ; and that simple tale 
Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 
A while on trivial things we held discourse, 
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 



THE WANDERER. 37 

I thought of that poor Woman as of one 

Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 

Her homely tale with such familiar power, 

With such an active countenance, an eye 

So busy, that the things of which he spake 

Seemed present ; and, attention now relaxed, 

A heartfelt dullness crept along my veins. 

I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 

Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, 

That had not cheered me long — ere, looking round 

Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, 

And begged of the old Man that, for my sake, 

He would resume his story. 

He replied, 
" It were a wantonness, and would demand 
Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts 
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw 
A momentary pleasure, never marked 
By reason, barren of all future good. 
But we, have known that there is often found 
In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 
A power to virtue friendly ; were 't not so, 
I am a dreamer among men, indeed 
An idle dreamer ! 'T is a common tale, 
An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
In bodily form. — But without further bidding 
I will proceed. 

While thus it fared with them, 
To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, 
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
4 



38 THE EXCURSION. 

To travel in a country far remote ; 

And when these lofty elms once more appeared 

What pleasant expectations lured me on 

O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step I reached 

The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ; 

But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me 

A little while ; then turned her head away 

Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a chair, 

Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, 

Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last 

She rose from off her seat, and then, — Sir ! 

I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : — 

With fervent love, and with a face of grief 

Unutterably helpless, and a look 

That seemed to cling upon me, she inquired 

If I had seen her husband. As she spake 

A strange surprise and fear came to my heart, 

Nor had I power to answer ere she told 

That he had disappeared — not two months gone. 

He left his house : two wretched days had past, 

And on the third, as wistfully she raised 

Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 

Like one in trouble, for returning light, 

Within her chamber-casement she espied 

A folded paper, lying as if placed 

To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 

She opened — found no writing, but beheld 

Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 

Silver and gold. ' I shuddered at the sight,' 

Said Margaret, * for I knew it was his hand 

That must have placed it there ; and ere that day 

Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, 

From one who by my husband had been sent 






THE WANDERER. 39 

With the sad news, that he had joined a troop 
Of soldiers, going to a distant land. 
— He left me thus — he could not gather heart 
To take a farewell of rne ; for he feared 
That I should follow with my babes, and sink 
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.' 

This tale did Margaret tell with many tears : 
And, when she ended, I had little power 
To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 
To cheer us both. But long we had not talked 
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
And with a brighter eye she looked around 
As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
We parted. — 'Twas the time of early spring ; 
I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, 
And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 

I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 
With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 
Through many a wood and many an open ground, 
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal ; 
My best companions now the driving winds, 
And now the ' trotting brooks' and whispering trees, 
And now the music of my own sad steps, 
With many a short-lived thought that passed between, 
And disappeared. 



40 THE EXCURSION. 






I journeyed back this way, 
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat 
Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass, 
Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 
I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 
Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that bright weed, 
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
Along the window's edge, profusely grew 
Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
And strolled into her garden. It appeared 
To lag behind the season, and had lost 
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled 
O'er paths they used to deck : carnations, once 
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
For the peculiar pains they had required, 
Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, 
Had twined about her two small rows of peas, 
And dragged them to the earth. 

Ere this an hour 
Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless steps ; 
A stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought, 
He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
The sun was sinking in the west ; and now 
I sate with sad impatience. From within 
Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, 



THE WANDERER. 41 

The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
The spot, though fair, was very desolate — 
The longer I remained, more desolate : 
And, looking round me, now I first observed 
The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
With dull red stains discolored, and stuck o'er 
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, 
That fed upon the Common, thither came 
Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 
From these tall elms ; the cottage clock struck 

eight ; — 
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 
Her face was pale and thin — her figure, too, 
Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 
* It grieves me you have waited here so long, 
But, in good truth, I 've wandered much of late ; 
And, sometimes — to my shame I speak — have need 
Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
While on the board she spread our evening meal, 
She told me — interrupting not the work 
Which gave employment to her listless hands — 
That she had parted with her elder child ; 
To a kind master on a distant farm 
Now happily apprenticed. — ' I perceive 
You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day 
I have been travelling far ; and many days 
About the fields I wander, knowing this 
Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
And to myself,' said she, ' have done much wrong 
Amd to this helpless infant. I have slept 
4* 



42 THE EXCURSION. 

Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears 
Have flowed, as if my body were not such 
As others are ; and I could never die. 
But I am now in mind and in my heart 
More easy ; and I hope,' said she, ' that God 
Will give me patience to endure the things 
Which I behold at home.' 

It would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel 
The story linger in my heart ; I fear 
'T is long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
To that poor Woman : — so familiarly 
Do I perceive her manner, and her look, 
And presence ; and so deeply do I feel 
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
A momentary trance comes over me ; 
And to myself I seem to muse on one ! 
By sorrow laid asleep ; or borne away, 
A human being destined to awake 
To human life, or something very near 
To human life, when he shall come*again 
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 
Your very soul to see her : evermore 
Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast ; 
And, when she at her table gave me food, 
She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
Her body was subdued. In every act, 
Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared 
The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 



THE WANDERER. 43 

We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 

I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 

Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 
For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 
Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
And I exhorted her to place her trust 
In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, 
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
With the best hope and comfort I could give : 
She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my hope 
It seemed she did not thank me. 

I returned, 
And took my rounds along this road again 
When on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
I found her sad and drooping : she had learned 
~No tidings of her husband ; if he lived, 
She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead, 
She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 
In person and appearance ; but her house 
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence ; 
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 
Had been piled up against the corner panes 
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves 
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 
Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew, 
And once again entering the garden saw, 



44 THE EXCURSION. 

More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass : 
No ridges there appeared of clear black mold, 
No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers, 
It seemed the better part were gnawed away 
Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw, 
Which had been twined about the slender stem 
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root ; 
The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. 
— Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, 
And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 
She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 
Ere Robert come again.' When to the House 
We had returned together, she enquired 
If I had any hope : — but for her babe 
And for her little orphan boy, she said, 
She had no wish to live, that she must die 
Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
Still in its place ; his sundry garments hung 
Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff 
Stood undisturbed behind the door. 

And when, 
In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
She told me that her little babe was dead, 
And she was left alone. She now, released 
From her maternal cares, had taken up 
The employment common through these wilds, and 

gained, 
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 
And for this end had hired a neighbor's boy 
To give her needful help. That very time 
Most willingly she put her work aside, 



THE WANDERER. 45 

And walked with me along the miry road, 
Heedless how far ; and, in such piteous sort 
That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask 
For him whom she had lost. We parted then — 
Our final parting ; for from that time forth 
Did many seasons pass ere I returned 
Into this tract again. 

Nine tedious years ; 
From their first separation, nine long years, 
She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; 
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
A sore heart- wasting ! I have heard, my Friend, 
That in yon arbor oftentimes she sate 
Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day : 
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, 
Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its grey line ; 
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread 
With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, 
Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 
The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
Ceased from his task ; and she with faltering voice 
Made many a fond enquiry ; and when they, 
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 
That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, 



46 THE EXCURSION. 

And when a- stranger horseman came, the latch 

Would lift, and in his face look wistfully : 

Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 

Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 

The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 

Sank to decay ; for he was gone, whose hand, 

At the first nipping of October frost, 

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 

Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 

Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 

Until her house, by frost, and thaw, and rain, * 

Was sapped ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 

Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 

Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, 

Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 

Have parted hence : and still that length of road, 

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 

Fast-rooted at her heart ; and here, my Friend, — 

In sickness she remained ; and here she died ; 

Last human tenant of these ruined walls !" 

The old Man ceased : he saw that I was moved ; 
From that low bench, rising instinctively 
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
To thank him for the tale which he had told. 
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wail 
Reviewed that Woman's sufferings ; and it seemed 
To comfort me while with a brother's love 
I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
Then towards the cottage I returned ; and traced 
Fondly, though with an interest more mild, 
That secret spirit of humanity 






THE WANDERER. 47 

Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies 

Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 

And silent overgrowings, still survived. 

The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 

" My Friend ! enough <£o sorrow you have given, 

The purposes of wisdom ask no more : 

Nor more would she have craved as due to one 

Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt 

The unbounded might of prayer ; and learned, with 

soul 
Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs 
From sources deeper far than deepest pain, 
For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read 
The forms of things with an unworthy eye ? 
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
I well remember that those very plumes, 
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 
By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
As once I passed, into my heart conveyed 
So still an image of tranquillity, 
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 
That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
That passing shows of Being leave behind, 
Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, 
Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit 
Whose meditative sympathies repose 
Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away, 
And walked along my road in happiness." 

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
A slant and mellow radiance, which began 



4S THE EXCURSION. 

To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 
We sate on that low bench : and now we felt, 
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff ; 
Together casting then a farewell look 
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ; 
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
A village-inn, — our evening resting-place. 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK SECOND. 



THE SOLITARY 



THE SOLITARY. 



ARGUMENT . 



rhe Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose character is 
further illustrated — Morning scene, and view of a Village Wake — 
Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit — View, 
from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for his 
retreat— Sound of singing from below— a funeral procession— Descent 
into the Valley — Observations drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a 
book accidentally discovered in a recess in the Valley— Meeting with 
the Wanderer's friend, the Solitary — Wanderer's description of the 
mode of burial in this mountainous district — Solitary contrasts with 
this, that of the individual carried a few minutes before from the 
cottage— The cottage entered— Description of the Solitary's apart- 
ment — Repast there — View, from the window, of two mountain 
summits ; and the Solitary's description of the companionship they 
afford him— Account of the departed inmate of the cottage— Descrip- 
tion of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the 
Solitary's mind— Leave the house. 

TN days of yore how fortunately fared 

The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to hall, 
Baronial court or royal ; cheered with gifts 
Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise ; 
Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 
Now resting with a pilgrim by the side 
Of a clear brook : beneath an abbey 's roof 
One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next; 
Humbly in a religious hospital ; 
51 



52 THE EXCURSION. 

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood ; • 

Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. 

Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared ; 

He walked — protected from the sword of war 

By virtue of that sacred instrument 

His harp, suspended at the traveller's side ; 

His dear companion wheresoe'er he went 

Opening from land to land an easy way 

By melody, and by the charm of verse. 

Yet not the noblest of that honored Race 

Drew happier, loftier, more empassioned, thoughts 

From his long journeyings and eventful life, 

Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 

To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 

Of these our unimaginative days ; 

Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise 

Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 

And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 

What wonder, then, if I, whose favorite school 
Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 
Looked on this guide with reverential love? 
Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
Our journey, under favorable skies. 
Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light 
Unfailing : not a hamlet could we pass, 
Rarely a house, that did not yield to him 
Remembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, 
Which nature's various objects might inspire; 
And in the silence of his face I read 
His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, 






THE SOLITARY. 53 

And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, 
And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 
The fowl domestic, and the household dog — 
In his capacious mind, he loved them all : 
Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd 
To happy contemplation soothed his walk ; 
How the poor brute's condition, forced to run 
Its course of suffering in the public road, 
Sad contrast 1 all too often smote his heart 
With unavailing pity. Rich in love 
And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 
To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew 
Greeted us all day long ; we took our seats 
By many a cottage-hearth, where he received 
The welcome of an Inmate from afar, 
And I at once forgot I was a Stranger. 
— Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, 
Huts where his charity was blest ; his voice 
Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 
And, sometimes — where the poor man held dispute 
With his own mind, unable to subdue 
Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
General distress in his particular lot ; 
Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
Struggling against it ; with a soul perplexed, 
And finding in herself no steady power 
To draw the line of comfort that divides 
Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
From the injustice of our brother men — 
5* 



54 THE EXCURSION. 

To him appeal was made as to a judge ; 
Who, with an understanding heart allayed 
The perturbation ; listened to the plea ; 
Resolved the dubious point ; and sentence gave 
So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
With softened spirit, even when it condemned. 

Such intercourse I witnessed, while we roved, 
Now as his choice directed, now as mine ; 
Or both, with equal readiness of will, 
Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 
Of accident. But when the rising sun 
Had three times called us to renew our walk, 
My Fellow-traveller, with earnest voice, 
As if the thought were but a moment old, 
Claimed absolute dominion for the day. 
We started — and he led me toward the hills 
Up through an ample vale, with higher hills 
Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 
But, in the majesty of distance, now 
Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 
And beautified with morning's purple beams. 

The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress 
Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, 
May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ; 
And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease, 
Shall lack not their enjoyment : — but how faint 
Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by side, 
Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 



THE SOLITARY. 55 

That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
Pausing at will — our spirits braced, our thoughts 
Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, 
And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 

Mount slowly, sun ! that we may journey long, 
By this dark hill protected from thy beams ! 
Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish 
But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
'Twas chased away : for, toward the western side 
Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, 
We saw a throng of people ; — wherefore met ? 
Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
On the thrilled ear, and flags uprising, yield 
Prompt answer ; they proclaim the annual Wake, 
Which the bright season favors. — Tabor and pipe 
In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
The laggard Rustic ; and repay with boons 
Of merriment a party-colored knot, 
Already formed upon the village-green. 
— Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight 
That gay assemblage. Round them and above, 
Glitter, with dark recesses interposed, 
Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
Half- veiled in vapory cloud, the silver steam 
Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast 
Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
Of morning, aided by exhaling dew, 
With gladsome influence could re-animate 
The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 



56 THE EXCURSION. 

Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
These festive matins ?" — He replied, " Not loth 
To linger I would here with you partake, 
Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, 
The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
By the fleet Racers, ere the sun be set, 
The turf of yon large pasture will be skimmed ; 
There, too, the lusty Wrestlers shall contend : 
But know we not that he, who intermits 
The appointed task and duties of the day, 
Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day ; 
Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
To flow, when purposes are lightly changed ? 
A length of journey yet remains untraced-: 
Let us proceed." Then, pointing with his staff 
Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent 
He thus imparted : — 

"In a spot that lies 
Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
You will receive, before the hour of noon, 
Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, 
From sight of One who lives secluded there, 
Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past life, 
(Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
More faithfully collected from himself) 
This brief communication shall suffice. 

Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, 
Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
Where many a sheltered and well-tended plant, 
Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 



THE SOLITARY. 57 

Blossoms of piety ^.nd innocence. 

Such grateful promises his youth displayed : 

And, having shown in study forward zeal, 

He to the Ministry was duly called ; 

And straight, incited by a curious mind 

Filled with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 

OT Chaplain to a military troop, 

Cheered by the Highland bagpipe, as they marched 

In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 

This office filling, yet by native power 

And force of native inclination made 

An intellectual ruler in the haunts 

Of social vanity, he walked the world, 

Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety ; 

Lax, buoyant — less a pastor with his flock 

Than a soldier among soldiers — lived and roamed 

Where Fortune led : — and Fortune, who oft proves 

The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known 

A blooming Lady — a conspicuous flower, 

Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 

Whom he had sensibility to love, 

Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 

For this fair Bride; most rich in gifts of mind, 
Nor sparingly endowed with worldly wealth, 
His office he relinquished ; and retired 
From the world's notice to a rural home. 
Youth's season yet with him was scarcely past, 
And she was in youth's prime. How free their love, 
How full their joy ! 'Till, pitiable doom ! 
In the short course of one undreaded year, 
Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew 
Two lovely Children — all that they possessed ! 



58 THE EXCURSION. 

The Mother followed : — miserably bare 
The one Survivor stood ; he wept, he prayed 
For his dismissal, day and night, compelled 
To hold communion with the grave, and face 
With pain the regions of eternity. 
An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
This anguish ; and, indifferent to delight, 
To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
To private interest dead, and public care. 
So lived he ; so he might have died. 

But now, 

To the wide world's astonishment, appeared 

A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, 

That promised everlasting joy to France ! 

Her voice of social transport reached even him ! 

He broke from his contracted bounds, repaired 

To the great City, an emporium then 

Of golden expectations, and receiving 

Freights every day from a new world of hope. 

Thither his popular talents he transferred ; 

And, from the pulpit, zealously maintained 

The cause of Christ and civil liberty, 

As one, and moving to one glorious end. 

Intoxicating service ! I might say 

A happy service ; for he was sincere 

As vanity and fondness for applause, 

And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 

That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) 
bound, 
For one hostility, in friendly league, 
Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves ; 
Was served by rival advocates that came 



THE SOLITARY. 59 

From regions opposite as heaven and hell. 

One courage seemed to animate them all : 

And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained 

By their united efforts, there arose 

A proud and most presumptuous confidence 

In the transcendent wisdom of the age, 

And her discernment ; not alone in rights, 

And in the origin and bounds of power 

Social and temporal ; but in laws divine, 

Deduced by reason, or to faith revealed. 

An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 

Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 

Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 

The strongest did not easily escape ; 

And He, what wonder ! took a mortal taint. 

How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 

That he broke faith with them whom he had laid 

In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope ! 

An infidel contempt of holy writ 

Stole by degrees upon his mind ; and hence 

Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced ; 

Vilest hypocrisy — the laughing, gay 

Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 

Smooth words he had to wheedle simple souls ; 

But, for disciples of the inner school, 

Old freedom was old servitude, and they 

The wisest whose opinions stooped the least 

To known restraints ; and who most boldly drew 

Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 

That, in the light of false philosophy, 

Spread like a halo round a misty moon, 

Widening its circle as the storms advance. 



60 THE EXCURSION. 

His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
And every day and every place enjoyed 
The unshackled layman's natural liberty ; 
Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 
I do not wish to wrong him ; though the course 
Of private life licentiously displayed 
Unhallowed actions — planted like a crown 
Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
Of spurious notions — worn as open signs 
Of prejudice subdued — still he retained, 
'Mid much abasement, what he had received 
From nature, an intense and glowing mind. 
Wherefore, when humbled Liberty grew weak, 
And mortal sickness on her face appeared, 
He colored objects to his own desire 
As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 
Of pain were keen as those of better men, 
Nay keener, as his fortitude was less : 
And he continued, when worse days were come, 
To deal about his sparkling eloquence, 
Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 
That showed like happiness. But, in despite 
Of all this outside bravery, within, 
He neither felt encouragement nor hope : 
For moral dignity, and strength of mind, 
Were wanting ; and simplicity of life ; 
And reverence for himself ; and, last and best, 
Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him 
Before whose sight the troubles of this world 
Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. 

The glory of the times fading away — 
The splendor, which had given a festal air 



THE SOLITARY. 61 

To self-importance, hallowed it, and veiled 
From his own sight — this gone, he forfeited 
All joy in human nature ; was consumed, 
And vexed, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
And fruitless indignation ; galled by pride ; 
Made desperate by contempt of men who throve 
Before his sight in power or fame, and won, 
Without desert, what he desired ; weak men, 
Too weak even for his envy or his hate. 
Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
With malady — in part, I fear, provoked 
By weariness of life — he fixed his home, 
Or, rather say, sate down by very chance, 
Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells, 
And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 
Steeped in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not 
Its own voluptuousness ; — on this resolved, 
With this content, that he will live and die 
Forgotten, — at safe distance from ' a world 
Not moving to his mind.' " 

These serious words 
Closed the preparatory notices 
That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
The way, while we advanced up that wide vale. 
Diverging now (as if his quest had been 
Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
Of water, or some lofty eminence, 
Renowned for splendid prospect far and wide) 
We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
A steep ascent ; and reached a dreary plain, 
With a tumultuous waste of huge hill tops 
Before us ; savage region ! which I paced 
6 



62 THEEXCURSION. 

Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale, 
A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 
Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs 
So placed, to be shut out from all the world ! 
Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn ; 
With rocks encompassed, save that to the south 
Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close ; 

A quiet, treeless nook, with two green fields, 

A liquid pool that glittered in the sun, 

And one bare dwelling ; one abode, no more ! 

It seemed the home of poverty and toil, 

Though not of want : the little fields, made green 

By husbandry of many thrifty years, 

Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house. 

— There crows the cock, single in his domain : 

The small birds find in spring no thicket there 

To shroud them ; only from the neighboring vales 

The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill tops, 

Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. 

Ah ! what a sweet Recess, thought I, is here ! 
Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
Among the mountains ; never one like this ; 
So lonesome, and so perfectly secure ; 
Not melancholy — no, for it is green, 
And bright, and fertile, furnished in itself 
With the few needful things that life requires. 
— In rugged arms how softly does it lie, 



THE SOLITARY. 63 

How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
We have an image of the pristine earth, 
The planet in its nakedness : were this 
Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
First, last, and single, in the breathing world, 
It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
Or nowhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
Of public news or private ; years that pass 
Forgetfully ; uncalled upon to pay 
The common penalties of mortal life, 
Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 

On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay 
In silence musing by my Comrade's side, 
He also silent ; when from out the heart 
Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, 
Or several voices in one solemn sound, 
"Was heard ascending ; mournful, deep, and slow 
The cadence, as of psalms — a funeral dirge ! 
We listened, looking down upon the hut, 
But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 
And now distinctly could I recognise 
These words : — ' Shall in the grave thy love be known, 
In death thy faithfulness P — " God rest his soul 1" 
Said the old man, abruptly breaking silence, — 
" He is departed, and finds peace at last !" 

This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 
Not ceasing, forth appeared in view a band 
Of rustic persons, from behind the hut 
Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which 
They shaped their course along the sloping side 



64 THE EXCURSION 



Of that small valley, singing as they moved ; 

A sober company and few, the men 

Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 

Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge 

Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 

Recovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake, 

Methought, with apprehension that these rites 

Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 

This day we purposed to intrude." — " I did so, 

But let us hence, that we may learn the truth : 

Perhaps it is not he but some one else 

For whom this pious service is performed ; 

Some other tenant of the solitude." 

So, to a steep and difficult descent 
Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, 
Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 
Of the mute train, behind the heathy top 
Of that off-sloping outlet, disappeared, 
I, more impatient in my downward course, 
Had landed upon easy ground ; and there 
Stood waiting for my Comrade. When behold 
An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
A narrow, winding entry opened out 
Into a platform — that lay, sheepfold-wise, 
Enclosed between an upright mass of rock 
And one old moss-grown wall ; — a cool recess, 
And fanciful ! For where the rock and Avail 
Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 
By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 
To weather-fend a little turf- built seat 
Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 






THE SOLITARY. 65 

The burning sunshine, or a transient shower ; 
But the whole plainly wrought by children's hands ! 
Whose skill had thronged the floor with a proud show 
Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
Nor wanting ornament of walks between, 
With mimic trees inserted in the turf, 
And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 
I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, 
Impatient to pass on, when I exclaimed, 
" Lo ! what is here ?" and, stooping down, drew forth 
A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss 
And wreck of party-colored earthenware, 
Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
One of those petty structures. " His it must be !" 
Exclaimed the Wanderer, " cannot but be his, 
And he is gone !" The book, which in my hand 
Had opened of itself (for it was swoln 
With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 
To the injurious elements exposed 
From week to week,) I found to be a work 
In the French tongue, a Novel of Voltaire, 
His famous Optimist. " Unhappy Man !" 
Exclaimed my Friend : " here then has been to him 
Retreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
Within how deep a shelter ! He had fits, 
Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, 
And loved the haunts of children : here, no doubt, 
Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, 
Or sate companionless ; and here the book, 
Left and forgotten in his careless way, 
Must by the cottage-children have been found : 
Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work ! 
6* 



66 THE EXCURSION. 

To what odd purpose have the darlings turned 
This sad memorial of their hapless friend !" 

"Me," said I, "most doth it surprise, to find 
Such book in such a place !" — " A book it is," 
He answered, " to the Person suited well, 
Though little suited to surrounding things : 
'Tis strange, I grant ; and stranger still had been 
To see the Man who owned it, dwelling here, 
With one poor shepherd, far from all the world ! — 
Now, if our errand hath been thrown away, 
As from these intimations I forebode, 
Grieved shall I be — less for my sake than yours, 
And least of all for him who is no more." 

By this, the book was in the old Man's hand ; 
And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
An eye of scorn : — " The lover," said he, " doomed 
To love when hope hath failed him — whom no depth 
Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of hair, 
And that is joy to him. When change of times 
Hath summoned kings to scaffolds, do but give 
The faithful servant, who must hide his head 
Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, 
And he too hath his comforter. How poor, 
Beyond all poverty how destitute, 
Must that Man have been left, who, hither driven, 
Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
"No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen, 
Impure conceits discharging from a heart 






THE SOLITARY. 67 

Hardened by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
To tax you with this journey ;" — mildly said 
My venerable friend, as forth we stepped 
Into the presence of the cheerful light — 
" For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 
From moving spectacles ; — but let us on." 

So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
For full in view, approaching through a gate 
That opened from the enclosure of green fields 
Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
I knew from his deportment, mien, and dress, 
That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 
Not rustic — dull and faded like himself ! 
He saw us not, though distant but few steps ; 
For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
Of red-ripe currants ; gift by which he strove, 
With intermixture of endearing words, 
To soothe a Child, who walked beside him, weeping 
As if disconsolate. — " They to the grave 
Are. bearing him, my Little-one," he said, 
" To the dark pit ; but he will feel no pain ; 
His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven." 

More might have followed — but my honored 
Friend 
Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
That flashed and sparkled from the other's eyes ; 



68 THE EXCURSION. 

He was all fire * no shadow on his brow 

Remained, nor sign of sickness on his face. 

Hands joined he with his Visitant, — a grasp, 

An eager grasp ; and many moments' space — ■ 

When the first glow of pleasure was no more, 

And, of the sad appearance which at once 

Had vanished, much was come and coming back- 

An amicable smile retained the life 

Which it had unexpectedly received, 

Upon his hollow cheek. " How kind," he said, 

" STor could your coming have been better timed; 

For this, you see, is in our narrow world 

A day of sorrow. I have here a charge " — 

And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 

The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child — 

" A little mourner, whom it is my task 

To comfort ; — but how came ye ? — if yon track 

(Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 

Conducted hither your most welcome feet, 

Ye could nOo miss the funeral train — they yet 

Have scarcely disappeared." " This blooming Child," 

Said the old Man, is of an age to weep 

At any grave or solemn spectacle, 

Inly distressed or overpowered with awe, 

He knows not wherefore ; — but the boy to-day, 

Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears ; you also 

Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand of Death, 

He answered, has been here ; but could not well 

Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 

Upon myself." — The other left these words 

Unnoticed, thus continuing. — 

" From yon crag, 
Down whose steep sides we dropped into the vale, 



THE SOLITARY. 69 

We heard the hymn they sang — a solemn sound 

Heard anywhere ; but in a place like this 

'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 

And customs of our rural ancestry 

Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope, 

Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I 

Stood still, though but a casual passenger, 

So much I felt the awfulness of life, 

In that one moment when the corse is lifted 

In silence, with a hush of decency ; 

Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 

And confidential yearnings, tow'rds its home, 

Its final home on earth. What traveller — who — 

(How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 

The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 

A mute procession on the houseless road ; 

Or passing by some single tenement 

Or clustered dwellings, where again they raise 

The monitory voice ? But most of all 

It touches, it confirms, and elevates, 

Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 

Ashes to ashes, dust bequeathed to dust, 

Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 

Upon the shoulders of the next in love, 

The nearest in affection or in blood ; 

Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 

Beside the coffin, resting on its lid 

In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 

And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint, 

And that most awful scripture which declares 

We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 

— Have I not seen — ye likewise may have seen — 

Son, husband, brothers — brothers side by side, 



70 THE EXCURSION. 

And son and father also side by side, 
Rise from that posture : — and in concert move, 
On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
Four dear supporters of one senseless weight, 
From which they do not shrink, and under which 
They faint not, but advance towards the open grave 
Step after step — together, with their firm 
Unhidden faces ; he that suffers most, 
He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps, 
The most serene, with most undaunted eye ! — 
Oh ! blest are they who live and die like these, 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow 
mourned !" 

"That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
Which did not please me, " must be deemed, I fear, 
Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
Into his mother earth without such pomp 
Of grief, depart without occasion given 
By him for such array of fortitude. 
Full seventy winters hath he lived, and mark ! 
This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, 
And I shall miss him ; scanty tribute ! yet, 
This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, 
If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
"Without a hand to gather it." 

At this 
I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, 
*' Can it be thus among so small a band 
As ye must needs be here ? in such a place 
I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 



THE SOLITARY. 71 

Of a departing cloud." — " 'T was not for love," 
Answered the sick Man with a careless voice — 
" That I came hither ; neither have I found 
Among associates who have power of speech, 
Nor in such other converse as is here, 
Temptation so prevailing as to change 
That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
Then, speaking in like careless sort, he said 
To my benign Companion, — " Pity 't is 
That fortune did not guide you to this house 
A few days earlier ; then would you have seen 
What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, 
That seems by Nature hollowed out to be 
The seat and bosom of pure innocence, 
Are made of ; an ungracious matter this ! 
Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too 
Of past discussions with this zealous friend 
And advocate of humble life, I now 
Will force upon his notice ; undeterred 
By the example of his own pure course, 
And that respect and deference which a soul 
May fairly claim, by niggard age enriched 
In what she most doth value, love of God 
And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall hear. 
I talk — and ye are standing in the sun 
Without refreshment !" 

Quickly had he spoken, 
And, with light steps still quicker than his words, 
Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot ; 
And, to my feeling, ere we reached the door, 
Had almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair, 
Than it appeared when from the beetling rock 



72 THE EXCURSION. 

We had looked down upon it. All within, 

As left by the departed company, 

Was silent, save the solitary clock 

That on mine ear ticked with a mournful sound. — 

Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs 

And reached a small apartment dark and low, 

Which was no sooner entered than our Host 

Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell, 

My hermitage, my cabin, what you will — 

I love it better than a snail his house. 

But now ye shall be feasted with our best." 

So, with more ardor than an unripe girl 
Left one day mistress of her mother's stores, 
He went about his hospitable task. 
My eyes were busy, and my thoughts no less, 
And pleased I looked upon my grey-haired Friend, 
As if to thank him ; he returned that look, 
Cheered, plainly, and yet serious. What a wreck 
Had we about us ! scattered was the floor, 
And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf, 
With books, maps, fossils, withered plants and 

flowers, 
And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools 
Lay intermixed with scraps of paper, some 
Scribbled with verse : a broken angling-rod 
And shattered telescope, together linked 
By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
And instruments of music, some half-made, 
Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls. 
But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; 
A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 



THE SOLITARY. 73 

A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 

By which it had been bleached, o'erspread the board ; 

And was itself half-covered with a store 

Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream ; 

And cakes of butter curiously embossed, 

Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers 

A golden hue, delicate as their own 

Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 

Nor lacked, for more delight on that warm day, 

Our table, small parade of garden fruits, 

And whortle-berries from the mountain side. 

The Child, who long ere this had stilled his sobs, 

Was now a help to his late comforter, 

And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, 

Ministering to our need. 

In genial mood, 
While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
Fronting the window of that little cell, 
I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
To glance an upward look on two huge Peaks, 
That from some other vale peered into this. 
" Those lusty twins," exclaimed our host, " if here 
It were ycur lot to dwell, would soon become 
Your prized companions. — Many are the notes 
Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth 
From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing 

shores ; 
And well those lofty brethren bear their part 
In the wild concert — chiefly when the storm 
Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, 
Like smoke, along the level of the blast, 
In mighty current ; theirs, too, is the song 
7 



74 THE EXCURSION. 

Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails ; 
And, in the grim and breathless hour of noon, 
Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
The thunder's greeting. Nor have nature's laws 
Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
Music of finer tone ; a harmony, 
So do I call it, though it be the hand 
Of silence, though there be no voice ; — the clouds, 
The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
Motions of moonlight, all come thither — touch, 
And have an answer — thither come, and shape 
A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
And idle spirits : — there the sun himself, 
At the calm close of summer's longest day 
Rests his substantial orb ; — between those heights 
And on the top of either pinnacle, 
More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, 
Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
Than the mute agents stirring there : — alone 
Here do I sit and watch. — " 

A fall of voice, 
Regretted like the nightingale's last note, 
Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of 

rapture 
Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said : 
" Now for the tale with which you threatened us !" 
" In truth the threat escaped me unawares : 
Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand 
For my excuse. Dissevered from mankind, 
As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seemed 
When ye looked down upon us from the crag, 
Islanders mid a stormy mountain sea, 



THE SOLITARY. 75 

We are not so ; — perpetually we touch 

Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world ; 

And he, whom this our cottage hath to-day 

Relinquished, lived dependent for his bread 

Upon the laws of public charity. 

The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains 

As might from that occasion be distilled, 

Opened, as she before had done for me, 

Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner ; 

The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 

Which appetite required — a blind dull nook, 

Such as she had, the kennel of his rest ! 

This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 

111 borne in earlier life ; but his was now 

The still contentedness of seventy years. 

Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree 

Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek, 

Winningly meek or venerably calm, 

Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 

A penalty, if penalty it were, 

For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 

I loved the old Man, for I pitied him ! 

A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 

With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, 

But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 

Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way, 

And helpful to his utmost power : and there 

Our housewife knew full well what she possessed ! 

He was her vassal of all labor, tilled 

Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine ; 

And, one among the orderly array 

Of hay-makers, beneath the burning sun 

Maintained his place ; or needfully pursued 



76 THE EXCURSION 



His course, on errands bound, to other vales, 

Leading sometimes an inexperienced child 

Too young for any profitable task. 

So moved he like a shadow that performed 

Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 

For what reward ! — The moon her monthly round 

Hath not completed since our dame, the queen 

Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, 

Into my little sanctuary rushed — 

Voice to a rueful treble humanized, 

And features in deplorable dismay. 

I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 

It is most serious : persevering rain 

Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 

Were hidden, and black vapors coursed their sides ; 

This had I seen, and saw ; but, till she spake, 

Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend — 

Who at her bidding, early and alone, 

Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf 

For winter fuel — to his noontide meal 

Returned not, and now, haply, on the heights 

Lay at the mercy of this raging storm. 

* Inhuman !' — said I, •' was an old Man's life 

Not worth the trouble of a thought ? — alas ! 

This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw 

Her husband enter — from a distant vale. 

We sallied forth together ; found the tools 

Which the neglected veteran had dropped, 

But through all quarters looked for him in vain. 

We shouted — but no answer ! Darkness fell 

Without remission of the blast or shower, 

And fears for our own safety drove us home. 






THE SOLITARY. 77 

I, who weep little, did, I will confess, 
The moment I was seated here alone, 
Honor my little cell with some few tears 
Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 
Had been collected from the neighboring vale, 
With morning we renewed our quest : the wind 
Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
Lay shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 
And long and hopelessly we sought in vain : 
'Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
A heap of ruin — almost without walls 
And wholly without roof (the bleached remains 
Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, 
The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
To meet for worship on that central height) — 
We there espied the object of our search, 
Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 
To baffle, as he might, the watery storm : 
And there we found him breathing peaceably, 
Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
We spake — he made reply, but would not stir 
At our entreaty : less from want of power 
Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts. 

So was he lifted gently from the ground, 
&nd with their freight homeward the shepherds 

moved 
Through the dull mist, I following — when a step, 
A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
Of the blind vapor, opened to my view 
1* 



78 THE EXCURSION. 

Glory beyond all glory ever seen 

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul ! 

The appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 

Was of a mighty city — -boldly say 

A wilderness of building, sinking far 

And self- withdrawn into a boundless depth, 

Far sinking into splendor — without end ! 

Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 

"With alabaster domes, and silver spires, 

And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 

Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright, 

In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 

With battlements that on their restless fronts 

Bore stars — illumination of all gems ! 

By earthly nature had the effect been wrought 

Upon the dark materials of the storm 

Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 

And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 

The vapors had receded, taking there 

Their station under a cerulean sky. 

Oh, 't was an unimaginable sight ! 

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald 

turf, 
Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky. 

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 

Molten together, and composing thus, 

Each lost in each, that marvellous array 

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 

Fantastic pomp of structure without name, 

In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapped. 

Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 

Of open court, an object like a throne 

Under a shining canopy of state 



THE SOLITARY. 79 

Stood fixed ; and fixed resemblances were seen 

To implements of ordinary use, 

But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 

Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 

In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power 

For admiration and mysterious awe. 

This little Vale, a dwelling place of Man, 

Lay low beneath my feet ; 't was visible— 

I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 

That which I saw was the revealed abode 

Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 

Swelled in my breast. — ' I have been dead,' I cried, 

' And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ?' 

And with that pang I prayed to be no more ! — 

— But I forget our Charge, as utterly 

I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed : 

The apparition faded not away, 

And I descended. 

Having reached the house, 
I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, 
And in serene possession of himself, 
Beside a fire whose genial warmth seemed met 
By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam 
Of comfort, spread over his pallid face. 
Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly 
Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 
And not less glad, for sake of her good name, 
That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 
But, though he seemed at first to have received 
No harm, and uncomplaining as before 
Went through his usual tasks, a silent change 
Soon showed itself : he lingered three short weeks ; 
A.nd from the cottage hath been borne to-day. 



80 THE EXCURSION. 

So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
That it is ended." At these words he turned — 
And, with blithe air of open fellowship, 
Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
Like one who would be merry. Seeing this, 
My grey -haired Friend said courteously — " Nay, 

nay, 
You have regaled us as a hermit ought ; 
Now let us forth into the sun !" — Our Host 
Rose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 






THE EXCURSION 



BOOK THIRD 



DESPONDENCY, 



DESPONDENCY. 



ARGUMENT . 



Images in the Valley. — Another Recess in it entered and described. — 
Wanderer's sensations. — Solitary's excited by the same objects. — Con- 
trast between these. — Despondency of the Solitary gently reproved. — 
Conversation exhibiting the Solitary's past and present opinions and 
feelings, till he enters upon his own History at length. — His domestic 
felicity — Afflictions. — Dejection. — Roused by the French Revolution. 
— Disappointment and disgust. — Voyage to America. — Disappointment 
and disgust pursue him.— His return.— His languor and depression of 
mind, from want of faith in the great truths of Religion, and want of 
confidence in the virtue of Mankind. 

A HUMMING BEE— a little tinkling rill— 
A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing, 
In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
Of a tall rock, their airy citadel — 
By each and all of these the pensive ear 
Was greeted, in the silence that ensued, 
When through the cottage-threshold we had passed, 
And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood 
Once more beneath the concave of a blue 
And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaimed our Host, 
Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 
The shade of discontent which on his brow 
Had gathered, — " Ye have left my cell, — but see 
83 



84 THE EXCURSION. 

How Nature hems you in with friendly arms ! 

And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 

But which way shall I lead you ? — how contrive, 

In spot so parsimoniously endowed, 

That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap 

Some recompense of knowledge or delight ?" 

So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed ; 

And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired 

Friend 
Said — " Shall we take this pathway for our guide? — 
Upward it winds, as if, in summer heats, 
Its line had first been fashioned by the flock 
Seeking a place of refuge at the root 
Of yon black Yew-tree, whose protruded boughs 
Darken the silver bosom of the crag, 
From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 
There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
Or let us trace this streamlet to its source ; 
Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound, 
And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green 

herbs, 
The mountain infant to the sun comes forth, 
Like human life from darkness." — A quick turn 
Through a strait passage of encumbered ground, 
Proved that such hope was vain : — for now we stood 
Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 
And saw the water, that composed this rill, 
Descending, disembodied, and diffused 
O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag, 
Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 
All further progress here was barred ; — And who, 
Thought I, if master of a vacant hour, 



DESPONDENCY. 81 

Here would not linger, willingly detained ? 
Whether to such wild objects he were led 
When copious rains have magnified the stream 
Into a loud and white-robed waterfall, 
Or introduced at this more quiet time. 

Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground, 
The hidden nook discovered to our view 
A moss of rock, resembling, as it lay 
Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
A stranded ship, with keel upturned, that rests 
Fearless of winds and waves. Three several stones 
Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
To monumental pillars : and, from these 
Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen, 
That with united shoulders bore aloft 
A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth : 
Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared 
A tall and shining holly, that had found 
A hospitable chink, and stood upright, 
As if inserted by some human hand 
In mockery, to wither in the sun, 
Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze, 
The first that entered. But no breeze did now 
Find entrance ; — high or low appeared no trace 
Of motion, save the water that descended, 
Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock. 
And softly creeping, like a breath of air, 
Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen, 
To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 

" Behold a cabinet for sages built, 
Which kings might envy !" — Praise to this effect 



86 THE EXCURSION. 

Broke from the happy old Man's reverend lip ; 

Who to the Solitary turned, and said, 

" In sooth, with love's familiar privilege, 

You have decried the wealth which is your own. 

Among these rocks and stones, methinks, I see 

More than the heedless impress that belongs 

To lonely nature's casual work : they bear 

A semblance strange of power intelligent, 

And of design not wholly worn away. 

Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind, 

How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth 

From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own, 

Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 

That in these shows a chronicle survives 

Of purposes akin to those of Man, 

But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails. 

— Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf 

With timid lapse ; — and lo ! while in this strait 

I stand — the chasm of sky above my head 

Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 

For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, 

Or to pass through ; but rather an abyss 

In which the everlasting stars abide ; 

And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might 

tempt 
The curious eye to look for them by day. 
— Hail Contemplation ! from the stately towers, 
Reared by the industrious hand of human art 
To lift thee high above the misty air 
And turbulence of murmuring cities vast ; 
From academic groves, that have for thee 
Been planted, hither come and find a lodge 
To which thou mayst resort for holier peace, — 



DESPONDENCY. 87 

From whose calm centre thou, through height or 

depth, 
Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead : 
Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 
Of time and conscious nature disappear, 
Lost in unsearchable eternity." s 

A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
"We scanned the various features of the scene . 
And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
With courteous voice thus spake — . 

" I should have grieved 
Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach, 
If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
Leaving this nook unvisited : but, in sooth, 
Your unexpected presence had so roused 
My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise ; 
And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot, 
Or, shall I say ? — disdained, the game that lurks 
At my own door. The shapes before our eyes 
And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed 
The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn stone, 
From Fancy, willing to set off her stores 
By sounding titles, hath acquired the name 
Of Pompey's pillar ; that I gravely style 
My Theban obelisk ; and, there, behold 
A Druid cromlech ! — thus I entertain 
The antiquarian humor, and am pleased 
To skim along the surfaces of things, 
Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
But if the spirit be oppressed by sense 



88 THE EXCURSION. 

Of instability, revolt, decay, 

And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature 

And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 

To quicken, and to aggravate — to feed 

Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 

Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss, 

Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 

Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 

Confines the shrill- voiced whirlwind, round and 

round 
Eddying within its vast circumference, 
On Sarum's naked plain — than pyramid 
Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved — 
Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 
Above the sandy desert, in the light 
Of sun or moon. — Forgive me, if I say, 
That an appearance which hath raised your minds 
To an exalted pitch (the self- same cause 
Different effect producing) is for me 
Fraught rather with depression than delight, 
Though shame it were, could I not look around, 
By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
Yet happier in my judgment, even than you 
With your bright transports fairly may be deemed, 
The wandering Herbalist, — who, clear alike 
From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts, 
Casts, if he ever chance to enter here, 
Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant 
Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 
Or learns, at least, that 't is not to be won : 
Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound 



DESPONDENCY. 89 

By soul- engrossing instinct driven along 

Through wood or open field, the harmless Man 

Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! — 

Nor is that Fellow- wanderer, so deem I, 

Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 

By scars which his activity has left 

Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank 

Heaven ! 
This covert nook reports not of his hand) 
He who with pocket-hammer smites the edge 
Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised 
In weather- stains or crusted o'er by Nature 
With her first growths, detaching by the stroke 
A chip or splinter — to resolve his doubts ; 
And, with that ready answer satisfied, 
The substance classes by some barbarous name, 
And hurries on ; or from the fragments picks 
His specimen, if but haply interveined 
With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube 
Lurk in its cells — and thinks himself enriched, 
Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before ! 
Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 
Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 
Range ; if it please them, speed from clime to clime ; 
The mind is full — and free from pain their pastime." 

" Then," said I, interposing, " One is near, 
Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
Place worthier still of envy. May I name, 
Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy ? 
Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form, 
Youngest apprentice in the school of art ! 
Him, as we entered from the open glen, 
8* 



90 THE EXCURSION. 

You might have noticed, busily engaged, 

Heart, soul, and hands, — in mending the defects 

Left in the fabric of a leaky dam 

Raised for enabling this penurious stream 

To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 

For his delight — the happiest he of all !" 

" Far happiest," answered the desponding Man, 
" If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
Ah ! what avails imagination high 
Or question deep ? what profits all that earth, 
Or heaven's blue vault, is suffered to put forth 
Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul 
To quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
Far as she finds a yielding element 
In past or future ; far as she can go 
Through time or space — if neither in the one, 
Nor in the other region, nor in aught 
That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things, 
Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds, 
Words of assurance can be heard ; if nowhere 
A habitation, for consummate good, 
Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
Can be attained, — a better sanctuary 
From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave ?" 

" Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said, 
"The voice, which we so lately overheard, 
To that same child, addressing tenderly 
The consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
* His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven.' 
These were your words ; and, verily, methinks 



DESPONDENCY. 91 

Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
Than when we soar." — 

The Other, not displeased, 
Promptly replied — " My notion is the same. 
And I, without reluctance, could decline 
All act of inquisition whence we rise, 
And what, when breath hath ceased, we may be- 
come. 
Here are we, in a bright and breathing world. 
Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
Of worthier explanation, say at once 
With the American (a thought which suits 
The place where now we stand) that certain men 
Leapt out together from a rocky cave ; 
And these were the first parents of mankind : 
Or, if a different image be recalled 
By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 
Of insects chirping out their careless lives 
On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf, 
Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
As sound — blithe race ! whose mantles were be- 
decked 
With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they 
Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil 
Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
But stop ! — these theoretic fancies jar 
On serious minds : then, as the Hindoos draw 
Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount, 
Even so deduce the stream of human life 
From seats of power divine ; and, hope, or trust, 
That our existence winds her stately course 
Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part 
Of a living ocean ; or, to sink engulfed, 



92 THE EXCURSION. 

Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 

And utter darkness : thought which may be faced, 

Though comfortless ! — 

Not of myself I speak ; 
Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 
By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
By philosophic discipline prepared 
For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
Such palms I boast not ; — no ! to me, who find, 
Reviewing my past way, much to condemn, 
Little to praise, and nothing to regret, 
(Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 
That scarcely seem to have belonged to me) 
If I must take my choice between the pair 
That rule alternately the weary hours, 
Night is than day more acceptable ; sleep 
Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
A better state than waking ; death than sleep : 
Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
Though under covert of the wormy ground ! 

Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 
That in more genial times, when I was free 
To explore the destiny of human kind 
(Not as an intellectual game pursued 
With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed) 
I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 
For to my judgment such they then appeared, 



DESPONDENCY. 93 

Or too aspiring, thankless at the best) 

Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 

An object whereunto their souls are tied 

In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er, 

From me, those dark impervious shades, that hang 

Upon the region whither we are bound, 

Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 

Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 

On wings, angelic Spirits ! I could muse 

O'er what from eldest time we have been told 

Of your bright forms and glorious faculties, 

And with the imagination rest content, 

Not wishing more ; repining not to tread 

The little sinuous path of earthly care, 

By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed. 

— ' Blow winds of autumn ! — let your chilling breath 

Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 

The shady forest of its green attire, — 

And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 

The gentle brooks ! — Your desolating sway, 

Sheds,' I exclaimed, ' no sadness upon me, 

And no disorder in your rage I find. 

What dignity, what beauty, in this change 

From mild to angry, from sad to gay, 

Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 

How rich in animation and delight, 

How bountiful these elements — compared 

With aught, as more desirable and fair, 

Devised by fancy for the golden age ; 

Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 

In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies, 

Through the long year in constant quiet bound, 

Night hushed as night, and day serene as day !' 



94 THE EXCURSION. 

—But why this tedious record ? — Age, we know, 

Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 

To anticipate the privilege of Age. 

From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 

Of better entertainment : — let us hence !" 

Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
To be diverted from our present theme, 
I said, " My thoughts agreeing, Sir, with yours, 
Would push this censure farther ; — for, if smiles 
Of scornful pity be the just reward 
Of Poesy thus courteously employed 
In framing models to improve the scheme 
Of Man's existence, and recast the world, 
"Why should not grave Philosophy be styled, 
Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, 
A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 
Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
Establish sounder titles of esteem 
For her, who (all too timid and reserved 
For onset, for resistance too inert, 
Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame) 
Placed, among flowery gardens curtained round 
With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood 
Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
The ends of being would secure, and win 
The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 
To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
Tranquillity to all things. Or is she," 
I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power, 
Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
Of admiration, and all sense of joy ?" 



DESPONDENCY. 95 

His countenance gave notice that my zeal 
Accorded little with his present mind ; 
I ceased, and he resumed. — " Ah ! gentle Sir, 
Slight, if you will, the means ; but spare to slight 
The end of those, who did, by system, rank, 
As the prime object of a wise man's aim, 
Security from shock of accident, 
Release from fear ; and cherished peaceful days 
For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good, 
And only reasonable felicity. 
What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 
Through a long course of later ages, drove, 
The hermit to his cell in forest wide ; 
Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 
Took their last farewell of the. sun and stars, 
Fast anchored in the desert ? — Not alone 
Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse, 
Wrongs Unredressed, or insults unavenged 
And unavengeable, defeated pride, 
Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 
Love with despair, or grief in agony ; — 
Not always from intolerable pangs 
He fled ; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed 
For independent happiness ; craving peace, 
The central feeling of all happiness, 
Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce, 
But for its absolute self : a life of peace, 
Stability without regret or fear ; 
That hath been, is, and shall be evermore ! — 
Such the reward he sought ; and wore out life, 
There, where on few external things his heart 



96 THE EXCURSION. 

Was set, and those his own ; or, if not his, 
Subsisting under nature's stedfast law. 






What other yearning was the master tie 
Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock 
Aerial, or in green secluded vale, 
One after one, collected from afar, 
An undissolving fellowship ? — What but this, 
The universal instinct of repose, 
The longing for confirmed tranquillity, 
Inward and outward ; humble, yet sublime : 
The life where hope and memory are as one : 
Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged 
Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
Or seasons' difference ; the immortal Soul 
Consistent in self-rule ; and heaven revealed 
To meditation in that quietness ! — 
Such was their scheme : and though the wished-for 

end 
By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained 
By none, they for the attempt, and pains employed, 
Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed 
From the unqualified disdain, that once 
Would have been cast upon them by my voice 
Delivering her decisions from the seat 
Of forward youth — that scruples not to solve 
Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
To overweening faith ; and is inflamed, 
By courage, to demand from real life 
The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
Hostility — how dreadful when it comes, 
Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 



DESPONDENCY. 97 

A child of earth, I rested, in that stage 
Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, 
Upon earth's native energies ; forgetting 
That mine was a condition which required 
Nor energy, nor fortitude — a calm 
Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
I might have even been tempted to despise. 
But no — for the serene was also bright ; 
Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing, 
With joy, and — oh ! that memory should survive 
To speak the word — with rapture ! Nature's boon, 
Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign ; 
Abused, as all possessions are abused 
That are not prized according to their worth. 
And yet, what worth ? what good is given to men, 
More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven ? 
What joy more lasting than a vernal flower? — 
None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
In solitude : and mutually addressed 
From each to all, for wisdom's sake : — This truth 
The priest announces from his holy seat : 
And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove, 
The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained, 
Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
That the prosperities of love and joy 
Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
Oh ! tremble, ye, to whom hath been assigned 
A course of days composing happy months, 
9 



98 THE EXCURSION. 

And they as happy years ; the present still 

So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 

Of a congenial future, that the wheels 

Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 

For Mutability is Nature's bane : 

And slighted Hope will be avenged ; and, when 

Ye need her favors, ye shall find her not ; 

But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony !" 

This was the bitter language of the heart : 
But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice, 
Though discomposed and vehement, were such 
As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
To a proficient of the tragic scene 
Standing before the multitude, beset 
With dark events. Desirous to divert 
Or stem the current of the speaker's thoughts, 
We signified a wish to leave that place 
Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
That seemed for self-examination made ; 
Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, 
Hidden from all men's view. To our attempt 
He yielded not ; but, pointing to a slope 
Of mossy turf defended from the sun, 
And on that couch inviting us to rest, 
Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned 
A serious eye, and his speech thus renewed. 

" You never saw, your eyes did never look 
On the bright form of Her whom once I loved : 
Her silver voice was heard upon the earth, 
A sound unknown to you ; else, honored Friend ! 
Your heart had born a pitiable share 



DESPONDENCY. 99 

Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss, 
And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought 
That I remember, and can weep no more. — 
Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit 
Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
Of self-reproach familiarly assailed ; 
Yet would I not be of such wintry barenness 
But that some leaf of your regard should hang 
Upon my naked branches ; — lively thoughts 
Give birth, full often, to unguarded words ; 
I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 
Too much of frailty hath already dropped ; 
But that too much demands still more. 

You know, 
Revered Compatriot — and to you, kind Sir, 
(Not to be deemed a stranger, as you come 
Following the guidance of these welcome feet 
To our secluded vale) it may be told — 
That my demerits did not sue in vain 
To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 
With hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride — 
In the devotedness of youthful love, 
Preferring me to parents, and the choir 
Of gay companions, to the natal roof, 
And all known places and familiar sights 
(Resigned with sadness gently weighing down 
Her trembling expectations, but no more 
Than did to her due honor, and to me 
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
In what I had to build upon) — this Bride, 
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 
To a low cottage in a sunny bay, 
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks, 



100 THE EXCURSION. 

And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 

On Devon's leafy shores ; — a sheltered hold, 

In a soft clime encouraging the soil 

To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 

Approach the embowered abode — our chosen seat — 

See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, 

The unendangered myrtle, decked with flowers, 

Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 

While, in the flowering myrtle's neighborhood, 

Not overlooked but courting no regard, 

Those native plants, the holly and the yew, 

Gave modest intimation to the mind 

How willingly their aid they would unite 

With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 

Of winter, and protect that pleasant place. 

— Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs, 

Track leading into track ; how marked, how worn 

Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse, 

Winding away its never-ending line 

On their smooth surface, evidence was none : 

But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 

A range of unappropriated earth, 

Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large ; 

Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 

The shining giver of the day diffuse 

His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 

Gay as our spirits, free as our desires ! 

As our enjoyments, boundless. — From those heights 

We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan combs ; 

Where arbors of impenetrable shade, 

And mossy seats, detained us side by side, 

With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 

' That all the grove and all the day was ollrs. , 



DESPONDENCY. 101 

happy time ! still happier was at hand ; 
For Nature called my Partner to resign 
Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
Enjoyed by us in common. — To my hope, 
To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became 
The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; 
And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
There could I meditate on follies past ; 
And, like a weary voyager escaped 
From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt, 
And self-indulgence — without shame pursued. 
There, undisturbed, could think of and could thank 
Her whose submissive spirit was to me 
Rule and restraint — my guardian — shall I say 
That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 
Within a port of rest had lodged me safe ; 
Safe from temptation, and from danger far ? 
Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed 
To an Authority enthroned above 
The reach of sight ; from whom, as from their source, 
Proceed all visible ministers of good 
That walk the earth — Father of heaven and earth, 
Father, and king, and judge, adored and feared ! 
These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 
And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
By observations transient as the glance 
Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form 
Cleaving with power inherent and intense, 
As the mute insect fixed upon the plant 
On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
It draws its nourishment imperceptibly — 
9* 



102 THE EXCURSION. 

Endeared my wanderings ; and the mother's kiss 
And infant's smile awaited my return. 

In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair, 
Companions daily, often all day long ; 
Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side, 
The twain within our happy cottage born, 
Inmates, and heirs of our united love ; 
Graced mutually by difference of sex, 
And with no wider interval of time 
Between their several births than served for one 
To establish something of a leader's sway ; 
Yet left them joined by sympathy in age ; 
Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
On these two pillars rested as in air 
Our solitude, 

It soothes me to perceive, 
Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
Attentive audience. But, oh ! gentle Friends, 
As times of quiet and unbroken peace, 
Though, for a nation, times of blessedness, 
Give back faint echoes from the historian's page ; 
So, in the imperfect sounds of^this discourse, 
Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice 
Which those most blissful days reverberate. 
What special record can, or need, be given 
To rules and habits, whereby much was done, 
But all within the sphere of little things ; 
Of humble, though, to us, important cares, 
And precious interests ? Smoothly did our life 
Advance, swerving not from the path prescribed ; 






DESPONDENCY. 103 

Her annual, her diurnal, round alike 

Maintained with faithful care. And you divine 

The worst effects that our condition saw 

If you imagine changes slowly wrought, 

And in their progress unperceivable ; 

Not wished for ; sometimes noticed with a sigh, 

(Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring) 

Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 

And loveliness endeared which they removed. 

Seven years of occupation undisturbed 
Established seemingly a right to hold 
That happiness ; and use and habit gave 
To what an alien spirit had acquired 
A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 
I lived and breathed ; most grateful — if to enjoy 
Without repining or desire for more, 
For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 
(Only except some impulses of pride 
With no determined object, though upheiu 
By theories with suitable support) — 
Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy 
Be proof of gratitude for what we nave ; 
Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at once, 
From some dark seat of fatal power was urged 
A claim that shattered all. — Our blooming girl, 
Caught in the gripe of death, with such brief time 
To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
Her cheek to change its color, was conveyed 
From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
Where height, or depth, admits not the approach 
Of living man, though longing to pursue. 



104 THE EXCURSION. 

—With even as brief a warning — and how soon, 
With what short interval of time between, 
I tremble yet to think of — our last prop, 
Our happy life's only remaining stay — 
The brother followed ; and was seen no more ! 

Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless winds 
Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky, 
The Mother now remained ; as if in her, 
Who, to the lowest region of the soul, 
Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed, 
This second visitation had no power 
To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
And to establish thankfulness of heart 
In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
The eminence whereon her spirit stood, 
Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
The space that severed us ! But, as the sight 
Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs 
Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
That consolation may descend from far 
(And that is intercourse, and union, too,) 
While, overcome with speechless gratitude, 
And, with a holier love inspired, I looked 
On her — at once superior to my woes 
And partner of my loss. — heavy change ! 
Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 
Insensibly ; — the immortal and divine 
Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure glory, 
As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
Into a gulf obscure of silent grief, 
And keen heart-anguish — of itself ashamed, 



DESPONDENCY. 105 

Yet obstinately cherishing itself : 

And, so consumed, she melted from my arms ; 

And left me, on this earth, disconsolate ! 

What followed cannot be reviewed in thought ; 
Much less, retraced in words. If* she, of life 
Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
And all the tender motions of the soul, 
Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand — 
Infirm, dependent, and now destitute ? 
I called on dreams and visions, to disclose 
That which is veiled from waking thought ; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
Imploringly ; — looked up, and asked the Heavens 
If Angels traversed their cerulean floors, 
If fixed or wandering star could tidings yield 
Of the departed spirit — what abode 
It occupies — what consciousness retains 
Of former loves and interests. Then my soul 
Turned inward, — to examine of what stuff 
Time's fetters are composed ; and life was put 
To inquisition, long and profitless ! 
By pain of heart — now checked— and now impelled — 
The intellectual power, through words and things, 
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
And from those transports, and these toils abstruse, 
Some trace am I enabled to retain 
Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 
Only by records in myself not found. 

From that abstraction I was roused, — and how ? 
Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 



106 THE EXCURSION. 

Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 

Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread Bastile, 

With all the chambers in its horrid towers, 

Fell to the ground : — by violence overthrown 

Of indignation ; and with shouts that drowned 

The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 

A golden palace rose, or seemed to rise, 

The appointed seat of equitable law 

And mild paternal sway. The potent shock 

I felt : the transformation I perceived, 

As marvellously seized as in that moment 

When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 

Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, 

Confusion infinite of heaven and earth, 

Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 

In every grove were ringing, * War shall cease ; 

' Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured ? 

1 Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 

* The tree of Liberty.' — My heart rebounded ; 
My melancholy voice the chorus joined ; 

— ' Be joyful all ye nations ; in all lands, 

* Ye that are capable of joy be glad ! 

' Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 
' In others ye shall promptly find ; — and all, 
' Enriched by mutual and reflected wealth, 
' Shall with one heart honor their common kind.* 

Thus was I reconverted" to the world ; 
Society became my glittering bride, 
And airy hopes my children. — From the depths 
Of natural passion, seemingly escaped, 
My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
Of institutions, and the forms of things ; 



DESPONDENCY. 107 

As they exist, in mutable array, 

Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins 

There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 

The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 

Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 

Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 

In sober conclave met, to weave a web 

Of amity, whose living threads should stretch 

Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole, 

There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 

And acclamation, crowds in open air 

Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice 

There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 

I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves 

Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 

Of thanks and expectation, in accord 

With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule 

Returned, — a progeny of golden years 

Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 

— With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem : 

I felt their invitation ; and resumed 

A long-suspended office in the House 

Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 

Of ancient inspiration serving me, 

I promised also, — with undaunted trust 

Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 

The admiration winning of the crowd ; 

The help desiring of the pure devout. 

Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed! 
But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 
How rapidly the zealots of the cause 
Disbanded — or in hostile ranks appeared ; 



108 THE EXCURSION. 

Some, tired of honest service ; these, outdone, 

Disgusted therefore, or appalled, by aims 

Of fiercer zealots — so confusion reigned, 

And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim, 

As Brutus did to Virtue, ' Liberty, 

' I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade !' 

Such recantation had for me no charm, 
Nor would I bend to it : who should have grieved 
At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
Of a conclusion, or catastrophe. 
Why then conceal, that, when the simply good 
In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
Other support, not scrupulous whence it came ; 
And, by what compromise it stood, not nice ? 
Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched, 
And qualities determined. — Among men 
So charactered did I maintain a strife 
Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
But, in the process, I began to feel 
That, if the emancipation of the world 
Were missed, I should at least secure my own, 
And be in part compensated. For rights, 
Widely — inveterately usurped upon, 
I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 
All that Abstraction furnished for my needs 
Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim, 
And propagate, by liberty of life, 
Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced, 
Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course, 
For its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 
Which I had trod in happiness and peace, 
Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 



DESPONDENCY. 109 

That, in a struggling and distempered world, 
Saw a seductive image of herself. 
Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
Is still the sport ! Here Nature was my guide, 
The Nature of the dissolute ; but thee, 

fostering Nature ! I rejected — smiled 
At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 

At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew 
From my unguarded heart. — The tranquil shores 
Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps 

1 might have been entangled among deeds, 
Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor — 
Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relished 
Strangely the exasperation of that Land, 
Which turned an angry beak against the down 
Of her own breast : confounded into hope 

Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 

But all was quieted by iron bonds 
Of military sway. The shifting aims, 
The moral interests, the creative might 
The varied functions and high attributes 
Of civil action, yielded to a power 
Formal, and odious, and contemptible. 
— In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change ; 
The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 
And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
Once more did I retire into myself. 
There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, 
Remote from Europe ; from her blasted hopes ; 
Her fields of carnage, and polluted air, 



10 



110 THE EXCURSION. 

Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main 
The ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew ; 
And who among them but an Exile, freed 
From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
Among the busily- employed, not more 
With obligation charged, with service taxed, 
Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
Upon the tall mast streaming. But, ye Powers 
Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, 
0, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
For, like a plague, will memory break out ; 
And, in the blank and solitude of things, 
Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength, 
Will conscience prey. — Feebly must they have felt 
Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 
The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
Were turned on me — the face of her I loved ; 
The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing 
Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
Where now that boasted liberty ? No welcome 
From unknown objects I received ; and those, 
Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
That volume — as a compass for the soul — 
Revered among the nations. I implored 
Its guidance ; but the infallible support 
Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused 
To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds ; 
Perplexed with currents ; of bis weakness sick ; 



DESPONDENCY. Ill 

Of vain endeavors tired ; and by his own, 
And by his nature's, ignorance, dismayed ! 

Long-wished-for sight, the Western World ap- 
peared ! 
And, when the ship was moored, I leaped ashore 
Indignantly — resolved to be a man, 
Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
No longer in subjection to the past, 
With abject mind — from a tyrannic lord 
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured : 
So, like a fugitive, whose feet have cleared 
Some boundary, which his followers may not cross 
In prosecution of then deadly chase, 
Respiring I looked round. — How bright the sun, 
The breeze how soft ! Can any thing produced 
In the old World compare, thought I, for power 
And majesty with this gigantic stream, 
Sprung from the desert ? And behold a city 
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
As he desires that they should be, whom winds 
And waves have wafted to this distant shore, 
In the condition of a damaged seed, 
Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root. 
Here may I roam at large ; — my business is, 
Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel 
And, therefore, not to act — convinced that all 
Which bears the name of action, howso'er 
Beginning, ends in servitude — still painful, 
And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say, 
On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
Appeared, of high pretensions — unreproved 



112 THE EXCURSION. 

But by the obstreperous voice of higher still ; 
Big passions strutting on a petty stage ; 
Which a detached spectator may regard 
Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
Quick change of objects ; and, to laugh alone, 
At a composing distance from the haunts 
Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 
As choice as musing Leisure can bestow ; 
Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
To keep the secret of a poignant scorn, 
Howe'er to airy Demons suitable, 
Of all unsocial courses, is least fit 
For the gross spirit of mankind, — the one 
That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns 
Into vexation. 

Let us, then, I said, 
Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge 
Of her own passions ; and to regions haste, 
Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe, 
Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides, 
Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 
In combination, (wherefore else driven back 
So far, and of his old inheritance 
So easily deprived ?) but, for that cause, 
More dignified, and stronger in himself ; 
Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
True, the intelligence of social art 
Hath overpowered his forefathers, and soon 
Will sweep the remnant of his line away ; 
But contemplations, worthier, nobler far 
Than her destructive energies, attend 
His independence, when along the side 



DESPONDENCY. 113 

Of Mississippi, or that northern stream* 
That spreads into successive seas, he walks ; 
Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life, 
And his innate capacities of soul, 
There imaged : or when, having gained the top 
Of some commanding eminence, which yet 
Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
Regions of wood and wide savannah, vast 
Expanse of unappropriated earth, 
With mind that sheds a light on what he sees ; 
Free as the sun, and lonely as the sun, 
Pouring above his head its radiance down 
Upon a living and rejoicing world ! 

So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated woods 
I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide, 
Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 
And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
(The sportive bird's companion in the grove) 
Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
I sympathised at leisure with the sound ; 
But that pure archetype of human greatness, 
I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared 
A creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 
Remorseless, and submissive to no law 
But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 

Enough is told ! Here am I — ye have heard 
What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
What from my fellow-beings I require, 
And either they have not to give, or I 
Lack virtue to receive ; what I myself, 
Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost 
10* 



114 THE EXCURSION. 

Nor can regain. How languidly I look 

Upon this visible fabric of the world, 

May be divined — perhaps it hath been said :— 

But spare your pity, if there be in me 

Aught that deserves respect : for I exist, 

Within myself, not comfortless.— The tenor 

"Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 

Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain brook 

In some still passage of its course, and seen, 

Within the depths of its capacious breast, 

Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky ; ' 

And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 

And conglobated bubbles undissolved, 

Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse, 

Betray to sight the motion of the stream, 

Else imperceptible. Meanwhile, is heard 

A softened roar, or murmur ; and the sound 

Though soothing, and the little floating isles 

Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 

With the same pensive office ; and make known 

Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 

Precipitations, and untoward straits, 

The earth-born wanderer hath passed ; and quickly, 

That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 

Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 

Is human Life ; and so the Spirit fares 

In the best quiet to her course allowed ; 

And such is mine, — save only for a hope 

That my particular current soon will reach 

The unfathomable gulf, where all is still I" 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK FOURTH 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 



ARGUMENT . 



State of feeling produced by the foregoing Narrative.— A belief in a 
superintending Providence the only adequate support under affliction. 
—Wanderer acknowledges the difficulty of a lively faith.— Hence im- 
moderate sorrow.— Exhortations.— How received.— Wanderer applies 
his discourse to that other cause of dejection in the Solitary's mind. — 
Disappointment from the French Revolution.— States grounds of 
hope, and insists on the necessity of patience and fortitude with respect 
to the course of great revolutions. — Knowledge th» source of tran- 
quillity — Rural Solitude favorable to knowledge of the inferior crea- 
tures ; Study of their habits and ways recommended ; exhortation to 
bodily exertion and communion with Nature. — Morbid Solitude 
pitiable — Superstition better than apathy.— Apathy and destitution 
unknown in the infancy ot society. — The various modes of Religion 
prevented it.— Wanderer points out the influence of religious and 
imaginative feeling in the humble ranks of society.— These principles 
tend to recall exploded superstitions and popery. — Wanderer rebuts 
this charge, and contrasts the dignities of the Imagination with the 
presumptuous littleness of certain modern Philosophers. — Recom- 
mends other lights and guides. — Asserts the power of the Soul to 
regenerate herself. — Exhortation to activity of body renewed. — How 
to commune with Nature.— Wanderer concludes with a legitimate 
union of the imagination, affections, understanding, and reason. — 
Effect of his discourse.— Evening : Return to the Cottage. 

TJERE closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 

His mournful narrative — commenced in pain, 
In pain commenced, and ended without peace : 
Yet tempered, not unfrequently with strains 
Of native feeling, grateful to our minds ; 
And yielding surely some relief to his, 
While we sate listening with compassion due. 
A pause of silence followed ; then, with voice 
That did not falter though the heart was moved 
The Wanderer said : — 

117 



118 THE EXCURSION. 

" One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life 
Exists — one only ; an assured belief 
That the procession of our fates, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good. 
— The darts of anguish fix not where the seat 
Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
By acquiescence in the Will supreme, 
For time and for eternity ; by faith, 
Faith absolute in God, including hope, 
And the defence that lies in boundless love 
Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone, 
To the dishonor of his holy name. 
Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine !" 



Then, as we issued from that covert nook, 
He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
To heaven : — " How beautiful this dome of sky ; 
And the vast hills, in fluctuation fixed 
At thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 
Human and rational, report of thee 
Even less than these ? — Be mute who will, who can, 
Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice ; 
My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd, 
Cannot forget thee here ; where thou hast built, 
For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 119 

Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine, 

In such a temple as we now behold 

Reared for thy presence ; therefore, am I bound 

To worship, here, and eveiywhere — as one 

Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread, 

From childhood up, the ways of poverty; 

From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 

And from debasement rescued. — By thy grace 

The particle divine remained unquenched ; 

And, mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 

Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, 

From paradise transplanted : wintry age 

Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart , 

If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! 

— Come labor, when the worn out frame requires 

Perpetual Sabbath ; come, disease and want ; 

And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 

But leave me unabated trust in thee — 

And let thy favor, to the end of life, 

Inspire me with ability to seek 

Repose and hope among eternal things — » 

Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich, 

And will possess my portion in content ! 

And what are things eternal ! — powers depart,'' 
The grey -haired Wanderer steadfastly replied, 
Answering the question which himself had asked, 
" Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat ; 
But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
Duty exists ; — immutably survive, 
For our support, the measures and the forms, 
Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; 



120 THE EXCURSION. 

Whose kingdom is, where time and space aie not. 
Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart, 
Do with united urgency require, 
What more that may not perish? — Thou, dread 

source, 
Prime, self-existing cause and end of all, 
That in the scale of being fill their place ; 
Above our human region, or below, 
Set and sustained ; — thou, who didst wrap the cloud 
Of infancy around us, that thyself, 
Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
Might'st hold on earth, communion undisturbed ; 
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
Restor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
And reason's steadfast rule — thou, thou alone 
Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits, 
Which thou includ'st, as the sea her waves : 
For adoration thou endur'st ; endure 
For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
For apprehension those transcendent truths 
Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws 
(Submission constituting strength and power) 
Even to thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
This universe shall pass away — a work 
Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, 
A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 
Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet 
No more shall stray where meditation leads, 
By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 
Loved haunts like these ; the unimprisoned Mind 
May yet have scope to range among her own, 
Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 121 

If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 

Still, it may be allowed me to remember 

What visionary powers of eye and soul 

In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top 

Of some huge hill — expectant, I beheld 

The sun rise up, from distant climes returned 

Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day 

His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep 

Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 

Attended : then, my spirit was entranced 

With joy exalted to beatitude ; 

The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 

And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 

Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
And, since their date, my soul hath undergone 
Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that flags, 
Through sinful choice ; or dread necessity 
On human nature from above imposed. 
'T is, by comparison, an easy task 
Earth to despise ; 8 but, to converse with heaven — 
This is not easy : — to relinquish all 
We have, or hope, of happiness and joy, 
And stand in freedom loosened from this world, 
I deem not arduous ; but must needs confess 
That 't is a thing impossible to frame 
Conceptions equal to the soul's desires ; 
And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
Heights which the soul is competent to gain. 
— Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his, 
Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft, 
11 



122 THE EXCURSION. 

Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke, 

That with majestic energy from earth 

Rises ; but, having reached the thinner air, 

Melts, and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 

From this infirmity of mortal kind 

Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; at least, 

If grief be something hallowed and ordained, 

If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 

Yet, through this weakness of the general heart, 

Is it enabled to maintain its hold 

In that excess which conscience disapproves. 

For who could sink and settle to that point 

Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 

As long and perseveringly to mourn 

For any object of his love, removed 

From this unstable world, if he could fix 

A satisfying view upon that state 

Of pure, imperishable blessedness, 

Which reason promises, and holy writ 

Ensures to all believers ? — Yet mistrust 

Is of such incapacity, methinks, 

No natural branch ; despondency far less ; 

And least of all, is absolute despair. 

— And, if there be whose tender frames have drooped 

Even to the dust ; apparently, through weight 

Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 

An agonizing sorrow to transmute ; 

Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld 

When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 

So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 

With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 

Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 

Oh ! no, the innocent Sufferer often sees 

Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTE D. 123 

To realize the vision, with intense 

And over-constant yearning ; — there — there lies 

The excess, by which the balance is destroyed. 

Too, too contracted, are these walls of flesh, 

This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 

Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 

For any passion of the soul that leads 

To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 

Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 

Along the line of limitless desires. 

I, speaking now from such disorder free, 

Nor rapt, nor craving, but m settled peace, 

I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore 

Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 

From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In mercy, carried infinite degrees 

Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 

Hope, below this, consists not with belief 

In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power 

That finds no limits but her own pure will. 

Here then we rest ; not fearing for our creed 
The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
To unsettle or perplex it ; yet with pain 
Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 
That, though immovably convinced, we want 
Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
As soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 
Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. 
Alas ! the endowment of immortal power 
Is matched unequally with custom, time, 6 
And domineering faculties of sense 
In all ; in most with superadded foes, 



124 THE JlXCURStON. 

Idle temptations ; open vanities, 

Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world J 

And, in the private regions of the mind, 

Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite, 

Immoderate wishes, pining discontent, 

Distress and care. What then remains ?— To seek 

Those helps for his occasions ever near 

Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, renewed 

On the first motion of a holy thought ; 

Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prayer — 

A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart 

Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 

Without access of unexpected strength. 

But, above all, the victory is most sure 

For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 

To yield entire submission to the law 

Of conscience — conscience reverenced and obeyed, 

As God's most intimate presence in the soul, 

And his most perfect image in the world. 

— Endeavor thus to live ; these rules regard ; 

These helps solicit ; and a steadfast seat 

Shall then be yours among the happy few 

Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air, 

Sons of the morning. For your nobler part, 

Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains 

Doubt shall be quelled and trouble chased away ; 

With only such degree of sadness left 

As may support longings of pure desire ; 

And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 

In the sublime attractions of the grave." 

While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
His judgments, near that lonely house we paced 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 125 

A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 

By nature's care from wreck of scattered stones, 

And from encroachment of encircling heath : 

Small space ! but, for reiterated steps, 

Smooth and commodious : as a stately deck 

Which to and fro the mariner is used 

To tread for pastime, talking with his mates, 

Or haply thinking of far-distant friends, 

While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 

Stillness prevailed around us ! and the voice 

That spake was capable to lift the soul 

Toward regions yet more tranquil. But, methought, 

That he, whose fixed despondency had given 

Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 

Was less upraised in spirit than abashed ; 

Shrinking from admonition, like a man 

Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 

Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 

The Sage continued : 

" For that other loss, 
The loss of confidence in social man, 
By the unexpected transports of our age 
Carried so high, that every thought, which looked 
Beyond the temporal destiny of the Kind, 
To many seemed superfluous — as, no cause 
Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
Exist ; so, none is now for fixed despair : 
The two extremes are equally disowned 
By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one 
You have been driven far as its opposite^ 
Between them seek the point whereon to build 
Stmnd expectations. So doth he advise 
Who shared at first the illusion ; but was soon 
Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 

n* 



126 THE EXCURSION 



Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fields ; 

Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking 

To the inattentive children of the world : 

' Vain -glorious Generation ! what new powers 

On you have been conferred ? what gifts, withheld 

From your progenitors, have ye received, 

Fit recompense of new desert ? what claim 

Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 

For you should undergo a sudden change ; 

And the weak functions of one busy day, 

Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 

What all the slowly-moving years of time, 

With their united force, have left undone ? 

By nature's gradual processes be taught ; 

By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 

Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit, 

Which, to your over- weening spirits, yields 

Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 

Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 

Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 

Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, "gave 
That visionary voice ; and, at this day, 
When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
The groaning nations ; when the impious rule, 
By will or by established ordinance, 
Their own dire agents, and constrain the good 
To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 
This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
Prevents me not from owning, that the law 
By which mankind now suffers, is most just. 
For by superior energies ; more strict 
Affiance in each other ; faith more firm 
In their unhallowed principles ; the bad 






DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 127 

Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, 

The vacillating, inconsistent good. 

Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait — in hope 

To see the moment, when the righteous cause 

Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 

As they who have opposed her ; in which Virtue 

Will, to her efforts, tolerate no bounds 

That are not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 

By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 

That spirit only can redeem mankind ; 

And when that sacred spirit shall appear, 

Then shall our triumph be complete as theirs. 

Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the wise 

Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 

Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 

They act, or they recede, observe and feel ; 

' Knowing the heart of man is set to be 7 

The centre of this world, about the which 

Those revolutions of disturbances 

Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 

Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 

As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 

And that unless above himself he can 

Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man /'* 

Happy is he who lives to understand, 
Not human nature only, but explores 
All natures, — to the end that he may find 
The law that governs each ; and where begins 
The union, the partition where, that makes 
Kind and degree, among all visible Beings ; 
The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond, — 
And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 

* Daniel. 



128 THE EXCURSION. 

To every class its station and its office, 

Through all the mighty commonwealth of things ; 

Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man. 

Such converse, if directed by a meek, 

Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love : 

For knowledge is delight; and such delight 

Breeds love : yet, suited as it rather is 

To thought and to the climbing intellect, 

It teaches less to love, than to adore ; 

If that be not indeed the highest love I" 

" Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
" The dignity of life is not impaired 
By aught that innocently satisfies 
The humbler cravings of the heart ; and he 
Is a still happier man, who, for those heights 
Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
And such benign affections cultivates 
Among the inferior kinds ; not merely those 
That he may call his own, and which depend, 
As individual objects of regard, 
Upon his care, from whom he also looks 
For signs and tokens of a mutual bond ; 
But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
And solitude, that they do favor most, 
Most frequently call forth, and best sustain, 
These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
The obstreperous city ; on the barren seas 
Are not unfelt ; and much might recommend, 
How much they might inspirit and endear, 
The loneliness of this sublime retreat !" 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 129 

" Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
" If, with the froward will and grovelling soul 
Of man, offended, liberty is here, 
And invitation every hour renewed, 
To mark their placid state, who never heard 
Of a command which they have power to break, 
Or rule which they are tempted to transgress : 
These, with a soothed or elevated heart, 
May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 
Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
Complacence there : — but wherefore this to you ? 
I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 
The redbreast, ruffled up by winter's cold 
Into a 'feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand : 
A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 
For the small wren to build in ; — not in vain, 
The barriers disregarding that surround 
This deep abiding place, before your sight 
Mounts on the breeze the butterfly ; and soars, 
Small creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers 
Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
Drawn towards her native firmament of heaven, 
When the fresh eagle, in the month of May, 
Upborne, at evening, on replenished wing, 
This shaded valley leaves ; and leaves the dark 
Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 
A proud communication with the sun 
Low sunk beneath the horizon ! — List ! — I heard, 
From yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent forth 
As if the visible mountain made the cry. 
Again !" — The effect upon the soul was such 
As he expressed : from out the mountain's heart 



130 THE EXCURSION. 

The solemn voice appeared to issue, startling 
The blank air — for the region all around 
Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent 
Save for that single cry, the unanswered bleat 
Of a poor lamb — left somewhere to itself, 
The plaintive spirit of the solitude ! 
He paused, as if unwilling to proceed, 
Through consciousness that silence in such place 
Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 
But soon his thoughts returned upon themselves, 
And, in soft tone of speech, thus he resumed. 

" Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
Perchance too lightly occupied, or lulled 
Too easily, despise or overlook 
The vassalage that binds her to the earth, 
Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
The trepidations of mortality, 
What place so destitute and void — but there 
The little flower her vanity shall check ; 
The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless pride ? 

These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds, 
Does that benignity pervade, that warms 
The mole contented with her darksome walk 
In the cold ground ; and to the emmet gives 
Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
The tiny creatures strong by social league 
Supports the generations, multiplies 
Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills — 
Their labor, covered, as a lake with waves ; 
Thousands of cities, in the desert place 
Built up of life, and food, and means of life ! 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 13! 

Nor wanting here to entertain the thought, 

Creatures that in communities exist, 

Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 

Or through dependence upon mutual aid, 

Than by participation of delight 

And a strict love of fellowship, combined. 

What other spirit can it be that prompts 

The gilded summer flies to mix and weave 

Their sports together in the solar beams, 

Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 

More obviously the self-same influence rules 

The feathered kinds ; the fieldfare's pensive flock, 

The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, 

Hovering above these inland solitudes, 

By the rough wind unscattered, at whose call 

Up through the trenches of the long-drawn vales 

Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 

Unfelt among the sedentary fowl 

That seek yon pool, and there prolong their stay 

In silent congress ; or together roused 

Take flight ; while with their clang the air resounds. 

And, over all, in that ethereal vault, 

Is the mute company of changeful clouds ; 

Bright apparition, suddenly put forth, 

The rainbow smiling on the faded storm ; 

The mild assemblage of the starry heavens ; 

And the great sun, earth's universal lord ! 

How bountiful is Nature ! he shall find 
Who seeks not ; and to him, who hath not asked, 
Large measure shall be dealt. Three Sabbath-days 
Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent, 
Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights ; 
And what a marvellous and heavenly show 



132 THE EXCURSION. 

Was suddenly revealed ! — the swains moved on 

And heeded not : ycu lingered, you perceived 

And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 

There is a luxury in self-dispraise ; 

And inward self-disparagement affords 

To meditative spleen a grateful feast. 

Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert, 

You judge unthankfully : distempered nerves 

Infect the thoughts : the languor of the frame 

Depresses the soul's vigor. Quit your couch — 

Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell ; 

Nor let the hallowed powers, that shed from heaven 

Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 

Look down upon your taper, through a watch 

Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 

In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 

Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 

Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 

That run not parallel to nature's course. 

Rise with the lark ! your matins shall obtain 

Grace, be their composition what it may, 

If but with hers performed ; climb once again, 

Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 

Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 

That from your garden thither soars, to feed 

On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock 

Be your frequented watch-tower ; roll the stone 

In thunder down the mountains ; with all your 

might 
Chase the wild goat ; and if the bold red deer 
Fly to those harbors, driven by hound and horn 
Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit ; 
So, wearied to your hut shall you return, 
And sink at evening into sound repose." 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 133 

The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
A kindling eye : — accordant feelings rushed 
Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth : 
" Oh ! what a joy it were, in vigorous health, 
To have a body (this our vital frame 
With shrinking sensibility endued, 
And all the nice regards of flesh and blood) 
And to the elements surrender it 
As if it were a spirit ! — How divine, 
The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, 
To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
And mountainous retirements, only trod 
By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 
To oldest time ! and, reckless of the storm 
That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
Be as a presence or a motion — one 
Among the many there ; and while the mists 
Flying, and rainy vapors, call out shapes 
And phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
As fast as a musician scatters sounds 
Out of an instrument ; and while the streams 
(A.s at a first creation and in haste 
To exercise their untried faculties) 
Descending from the region of the clouds, 
And starting from the hollows of the earthy 
More multitudinous every moment, rend 
Their way before them — what a joy to roam 
An equal among mightiest energies ; 
And haply sometimes with articulate voice, 
Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
1 Rage on, ye elements ! let moon and stars 
Their aspects lend, and mingle in their turn 
12 



134 THE EXCURSION. 

With this commotion (ruinous though it be) 

From day to night, from night to day, prolonged !' " 

" Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
To such desires, and grasped at such delight, 
Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
In spite of all the weakness that life brings, 
Its cares and sorrows ; he, though taught to own 
The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness — 
Loving the sports which once he gloried in. 

Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's hills, 
The streams far distant of your native glen ; 
Yet is their form and image here expressed 
With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
Wherever fancy leads ; by day, by night, 
Are various engines working, not the same 
As those with which your soul in youth was moved, 
But by the great Artificer endowed 
With no inferior power. You dwell alone; 
You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign prince, 
For you a stately gallery maintain 
Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen, 
Have acted, suffered, travelled far, observed 
With no incurious eye ; and books are yours, 
Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
Than that accumulated store of gold 
And orient gems, which, for a day of need, 
The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 135 

These hoards of truth you can unlock at will : 

And music waits upon your skilful touch, 

Sounds which the wandering shepherd from these 

heights 
Hears, and forgets his purpose ; — furnished thus, 
How can you droop, if willing to be upraised ? 

A piteous lot it were to flee from Man — 
Yet not rejoice in Nature. He, whose hours 
Are by domestic pleasures uncaressed 
And unenlivened ; who exists whole years 
Apart from benefits received or done 
'Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 
Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 
Of the world's interests — such a one hath need 
Of a quick fancy, and an active heart, 
That, for the day's consumption, books may yield 
Food not unwholesome ; earth and air correct 
His morbid humor, with delight supplied 
Or solace, varying as the seasons change. 
— Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of 

ease 
And easy contemplation ; gay parterres, 
And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
And shady groves in studied contrast — each. 
For recreation, leading into each : 
These may he range, if willing to partake 
Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
And course of service Truth requires from those 
Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne, 
And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and feels, 
And recognises ever and anon 
The breeze of nature stirring in his soul, 



136 THE EXCURSION. 

Why need such man go desperately astray, 
And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death V 
If tired with systems, each in its degree 
Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn, 
Let him build systems of his own, and smile 
At the fond work, demolished with a touch ; 
If unreligious, let him be at once 
Among ten thousand innocents, enrolled 
A pupil in the many-chambered school, 
Where superstition weaves her airy dreams. 

Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's verge ; 
And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
Yet rather would I instantly decline 
To the traditionary sympathies 
Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
A fearful apprehension from the owl 
Or death-watch : and as readily rejoice, 
If two auspicious magpies crossed my way ; — 
To this would rather bend than see and hear 
The repetitions wearisome of sense, 
Where soul is dead and feeling hath no place ; 
Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
On outward things, with formal inference ends ; 
Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
At once — or, not recoiling, is perplexed — 
Lost in a gloom of uninspired research ; 
Meanwhile, the heart within the heart, the seat 
Where peace and happy consciousness should dwell. 
On its own axis restlessly revolving, 
Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of truth. 

Upon the breast of new-created earth 
Man walked ; and when and wheresoe'er he moved, 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 137 

Alone or mated, solitude was not. 

He heard, borne on the wind, the articulate voice 

Of God ; and Angels to his sight appeared 

Crowning the glorious hills of paradise ; 

Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 

Enkindled by the sun. He sate — and talked 

With winged Messengers ; who daily brought 

To his small island in the ethereal deep 

Tidings of joy and love. — From those pure heights 

(Whether of actual vision, sensible 

To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 

Have condescendingly been shadowed forth 

Communications spiritually maintained, 

And intuitions moral and divine) 

Fell Human-kind — to banishment condemned 

That flowing years repealed not : and distress 

And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped the doom 

Of destitution ; — solitude was not. 

— Jehovah — shapeless Power above all Powers, 

Single and one, the omnipresent God, 

By vocal utterance, or blaze of light, 

Or cloud of darkness, localized in heaven ; 

On earth, enshrined within the wandering ark ; 

Or, out of Sion, thundering from his throne 

Between the Cherubim — on the chosen Race 

Showered miracles, and ceased not to dispense 

Judgments, that filled the land from age to age 

With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 

And with amazement smote ; — thereby to assert 

His scorn, or unacknowledged sovereignty. 

And when the One, ineffable of name, 

Of nature indivisible, withdrew 

From mortal adoration or regard, 

Not then was Deity engulfed ; nor Man, 



138 THE EXCURSION. 

The rational creature, left, to feel the weight 

Of his own reason, without sense or thought 

Of higher reason and a purer will, 

To benefit and bless, through mightier power : — 

Whether the Persian — zealous to reject 

Altar and image, and the inclusive walls 

And roofs of temples built by human hands — 

To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops, 

With myrtle -wreathed tiara on his brow, 

Presented sacrifice to moon and stars, 

And to the winds and mother elements, 

And the whole circle of the heavens, for him 

A sensitive existence, and a God, 

With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise : 

Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 

Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed 

For influence undefined a personal shape ; 

And, from the plain, with toil immense, upreared 

Tower eight times planted on the top of tower, 

That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 

Descending, there might rest ; upon that height 

Pure and serene, diffused — to overlook 

Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 

Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretched, 

With grove and field and garden interspersed ; 

Their town, and foodful region for support 

Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 

Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, 
Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
Spread like a sea, in boundless solitude, 
Looked on the polar star, as on a guide 
And guardian of their course, that never closed 
His steadfast eye. The planetary Five 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 13? 

With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 

Watched, from the centre of their sleeping flocks. 

Those radiant Mercuries, that seemed to move 

Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, 

Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 

And, by their aspects, signifying works 

Of dim futurity, to Man revealed. 

— The imaginative faculty was lord 

Of observations natural ; and, thus 

Led on, those shepherds made report of stars 

In set rotation passing to and fro, 

Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 

And its invisible counterpart, adorned 

With answering constellations, under earth, 

Removed from all approach of living sight 

But present to the dead ; who, so they deemed, 

Like those celestial messengers beheld 

All accidents, and judges were of all. 

The lively Grecian, in a land of hills, 
Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,— 
Under a cope of sky more variable, 
Could find commodious place for every God, 
Promptly received, as prodigally brought, 
From the surrounding countries, at the choice 
Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill, 
As nicest observation furnished hints 
For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed 
On fluent operations a fixed shape ; 
Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
Of art, this palpable array of sense, 
On every side encountered ; in despite 
Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 



140 THE EXCURSION. 

By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 

Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 

Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit hung, 

Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms, 

Statues and temples, and memorial tombs ; 

And emanations were perceived ; and acts 

Of immortality, in Nature's course, 

Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 

As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 

And armed warrior ; and in every grove 

A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 

When piety more awful had relaxed. 

— ' Take, running river, take these locks of mine'— 

Thus would the Votary say — ' this severed hair, 

My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 

Thankful for my beloved child's return. 

Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod, 

Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crystal lymph 

With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 

And, all day long, moisten these flowery fields !' 

And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 

Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 

Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired ; 

That hath been, is, and where it was and is 

There shall endure, — existence unexposed 

To the blind walk of moral accident ; 

From diminution safe and weakening age ; 

While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 

And countless generations of mankind 

Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod. 



We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love ; 
And, even as these are well and wisely fixed, 
In dignity of being we ascend. 






DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 141 

But what is error ?" — " Answer he who can !" 
The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed : 
" Love, Hope, and Admiration — are they not 
Mad Fancy's favorite vassals ? Does not life 
Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 
Guides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
Imagination's light when reason fails, 
The unguarded taper where the guarded faints ? 
— Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
What error is : and, of our errors, which 
Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
Of power, where are they ? Who shall regulate, 
With truth, the scale of intellectual rank !" 

" Methinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
" That for this arduous office you possess 
Some rare advantages. Your early days 
A grateful recollection must supply 
Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed 
To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
That poor men's children, they, and they alone, 
By their condition taught, can understand 
The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
How feelingly religion may be learned 
In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue — 
Heard, while the dwelling vibrates to the din 
Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength 
At every moment — and, with strength, increase 
Of fury ; or, while snow is at the door, 
Assaulting and defending, and the wind, 
A sightless laborer, whistles at his work — 
Fearful : but resignation tempers fear, 



142 THE EXCURSION. 

And piety is sweet to infant minds. 

— The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves 

On the green turf, a dial — to divide 

The silent hours ; and who to that report 

Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, 

Throughout a long and lonely summer's day 

His round of pastoral duties is not left 

With less intelligence for moral things 

Of gravest import. Early he perceives, 

Within himself, a measure and a rule, 

Which, to the sun of truth he can apply, 

That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 

Experience daily fixing his regards 

On nature's wants, he knows how few they are, 

And where they lie, how answered and appeased. 

This knowledge ample recompense affords 

For manifold privations ; he refers 

His notions to this standard ; on this rock 

Rests his desires ; and hence, in after life, 

Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. 

Imagination — not permitted here 

To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 

On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, 

And trivial ostentation — is left free 

And puissant to range the solemn walks 

Of time and nature, girded by a zone 

That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 

Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side 

Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top, 

Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 

(Take what you will from him upon the score 

Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 

For nobler purposes of mind : his heart 

Beats to the heroic song of ancient days ; 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 143 

His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 

And those illusions, which excite the scorn 

Or move the pity of unthinking minds, 

Are they not mainly outward ministers 

Of inward conscience ? with whose service chargeo 

They come and go, appear and disappear, 

Diverting evil purposes, remorse 

Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 

Or pride of heart abating ; and whene'er 

For less important ends those phantoms move, 

Who would forbid them, if their presence serve, 

On thinly-peopled mountains and wild heaths, 

Filling a space, else vacant, to exalt 

The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers? 

Once more to distant ages of the world 
Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
The face which rural solitude might wear 
To the unenlightened swains of pagan Greece. 
— In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched 
On the soft grass through half a summer's day, 
With music lulled his indolent repose : 
And, in some fit of weariness, if he 
When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched, 
Even from the blazing chariot of the sun, 
A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute, 
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 
The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart 
Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed 
That timely light, to share his joyous sport : 
And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 



144 THE E XCURSION. 

Across the lawn and through the darksome grove 

Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 

By echo multiplied from rock or cave, 

Swept in the storm of chase ; as moon and stars 

Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, 

When winds are blowing strong. The traveller 

slaked 
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked 
The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
Gliding apace, with shadows in their train, 
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
Into fleet Oreads, sporting visibly. 
The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings, 
Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed 
With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque, 
Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, 
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
In the low vale, or on steep mountain-side ; 
And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns 
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard, — 
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
Of gamesome Deities ; or Pan himself, 
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God !" 

The strain was aptly chosen : and I could mark 
Its kindly influence o'er the yielding brow 
Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 
While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, 
Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 
Detains ; but tempted now to interpose, 
He with a smile exclaimed : — 

" 'T is well you speak 
At a safe distance from our native land, 
And from the mansions where our youth was taught. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 145 

The true descendants of those godly men 

Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, 

Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 

That harbored them, — the souls retaining yet 

The churlish features of that after-race 

Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks, 

In deadly scorn of superstitious rites, 

Or what their scruples construed to be such — 

How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 

Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 

Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 

The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain 

Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our wells 

To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne ; 

And from long banishment recall Saint Giles, 

To watch again with tutelary love 

Or stately Edin bo rough throned on crags ? 

A blessed restoration, to behold 

The patron, on the shoulders of his priests, 

Once more parading through her crowded streets 

Now simply guarded by the sober powers 

Of science, and philosophy, and sense !" 

This answer followed. — "You have turned my 
thoughts 
Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
Against idolatry with warlike mind, 
And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
In woods, and dwell under impending rocks 
Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and food ; 
Why ? — for this very reason that they felt, 
And did acknowledge, wheresoe'er they moved, 
A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived, 
But still a high dependence, a divine 
13 



146 THE EXCURSION. 

Bounty and government, that filled their hearts 
With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love ; 
And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise, 
That through the desert rang. Though favored less 
Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree, 
Were those bewildered Pagans of old time. 
Beyond their own poor natures and above 
They looked ; were humbly thankful for the good 
Which the warm sun solicited, and earth 
Bestowed ; were gladsome, — and their moral sense 
They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 
And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave. 

Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaimed, 

Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 

From sense and reason less than these obtained, 

Though far misled ? Shall men for whom our age 

Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared, 

To explore the world without and world within, 

Be joyless as the blind? Ambitious spirits — 

Whom earth, at this late season, hath produced 

To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 

The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 

And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains 

Have solved the elements, or analysed 

The thinking principle — shall they in fact 

Prove a degraded Race ! and what avails 

Renown, if their presumption make them such ? 

Oh ! there is laughter at their work in heaven ! 

Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 

Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 

That we should pry far off yet be unraised ; 

That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 

Viewing all objects unremittingly 






DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 147 

Tn disconnexion dead and spiritless ; 
And still dividing, and dividing still, 
Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
May yet become more little ; waging thus 
An impious warfare with the very life 
Of our own souls ! 

And if indeed there be 
An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom 
Our dark foundations rest, could he design 
That this magnificent effect of power, 
The earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
By day, and all the pomp which night reveals ; 
That these — and that superior mystery 
Our vital frame, so fearfully devised, 
And the dread soul within it — should exist 
Only to be examined, pondered, searched, 
Probed, vexed, and criticised ? — Accuse me not 
Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am, 
If, having walked with Nature threescore years, 
And offered, far as frailty would allow, 
My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
I now affirm of Nature, and of Truth, 
Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
Revolts, offended at the ways of men 
Swayed by such motives, to such ends employed ; 
Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
Be of a thousand faculties composed, 
And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
No more than as a mirror that reflects 
To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss 
Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 



148 THE EXCURSION. 

Nor higher place can be assigned to him 
And his compeers — the laughing Sage of France. — 
Crowned was he, if my memory do not err, 
With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, 
In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
And benefits his wisdom had conferred ; 
His stooping body tottered with wreaths of flowers 
Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree ; 
Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man, 
And a most frivolous people. Him I mean 
Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith, 
This sorry Legend ; which by chance we found 
Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem, 
Among more innocent rubbish." — Speaking thus, 
With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 
We had espied the book, he drew it forth ; 
And courteously, as if the act removed, 
At once, all traces from the good Man's heart 
Of unbenign aversion or contempt, 
Restored to its owner. " Gentle Friend," 
Herewith he grasped the Solitary's hand, 
" You have known lights and guides better than 

these. 
Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
A noble mind to practise on herself, 
And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 
Of passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feared, 
From higher judgment- seats make no appeal 
To lower ; can you question that the soul 
Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
By each new upstart notion ? In the ports 
Of levity no refuge can be found, 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 149 

No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
He, who by wilful disesteem of life 
And proud insensibility to hope, 
Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
That her mild nature can be terrible ; 
That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
To avenge their own insulted majesty. 

blest seclusion ! when the mind admits 
The law of duty ; and can therefore move 
Through eaeh vicissitude of loss and gain, 
Linked in entire complacence with her choice ; 
When youth's presumptuousness is mellowed down, 
And manhood's vain anxiety dismissed ; 
When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit, 
Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
In sober plenty ; when the spirit stoops 
To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
Of unreproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 
To muse, and be saluted by the air 
Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 
From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride 
And chambers of transgression, now forlorn. 
0, calm contented days, and peaceful nights! 
Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive 
To reconcile his manhood to a couch 
Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise, 
Stuffed with the thorny substance of the past 
For fixed annoyance ; and full oft beset 
With floating dreams, black and disconsolate, 
The vapory phantoms of futurity ? 

Within the soul a faculty abides, 
That with interpositions, which would hide 
13* 



150 THE EXCURSION. 

And darken, so can deal that they become 
Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
Her native brightness. As the ample moon, 
In the deep stillness of a summer even 
Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, 
Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light, 
In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
Into a substance glorious as her own, 
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
In man's celestial spirit ; virtue thus 
Sets forth and magnifies herself ; thus feeds 
A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 
From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
From error, disappointment — nay, from guilt ; 
And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
From palpable oppressions of despair." 

The Solitary by these words was touched 
With manifest emotion, and exclaimed : 
" But how begin ? and whence ? — * The Mind 

free — 
Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
' This single act is all that we demand,' 
Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
His natural wings ! — To friendship let him turn 
For succor ; but perhaps he sits alone 
On stormy waters, tossed in a little boat 
That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
Religion tells of amity sublime 
Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
Who sees all suffering, comprehends all wants, 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 151 

All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs : 

But is that bounty absolute ? — His gifts, 

Are they not still, in some degree, rewards 

For acts of service ? Can his love extend 

To hearts that own him not ? Will showers of grace, 

When in the sky no promise may be seen, 

Fall to refresh a parched and withered land ? 

Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 

At the Redeemer's feet ?" 

In rueful tone, 
With some impatience in his mien he spake : 
Back to my mind rushed all that had been urged 
To calm the Sufferer when his story closed ; 
I looked for counsel as unbending now ; 
But a discriminating sympathy 
Stooped to this apt reply : — 

" As men from men 
Do, in the constitution of their souls, 
Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
One deeper than another, self-condemned, 
Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame ; 
So manifold and various are the ways 
Of restoration, fashioned to the steps 
Of all infirmity, and tending all 
To the same point, attainable by all — 
Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
At every moment softened in its course 
By tenderness of heart ; have seen your eye, 
Even like an altar lit by fire from heaven, 
Kindle before us, — Your discourse this day, 
That, like the fabled Lethe, wished to flow, 



152 THE EXCURSION. 

In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
Of death and night, has caught at every turn 
The colors of the sun. Access for you 
Is yet preserved to principles of truth, 
Which the Imaginative Will upholds 
In seats of wisdom, not to be approached 
By the inferior Faculty that moulds, 
With her minute and speculative pains 
Opinion, ever changing ! 

I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell ; 
To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon 
Brightened with joy ; for from within were heard 
Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 
Mysterious union with its native sea. 
Even such a shell the universe itself 
Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
Authentic tiding of invisible things ; 
Of ebb and flow, and eyer-during power ; 
And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
Adore and worship, when you know it not ; 
Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
Devout above the meaning of your will. 
— Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 
The estate of man would be indeed forlorn 
If false conclusions of the reasoning power 
Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 
Through which the ear converses with the heart. 
Has not the soul, the being of your life, 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 153 

Received a shock of awful consciousness, 

In some calm season, when these lofty rocks 

At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky, 

To rest upon their circumambient walls ; 

A temple framing of dimensions vast, 

And yet not too enormous for the sound 

Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 

Sublime of instrumental harmony, 

To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 

Did never break the stillness that prevails 

Here, — if the solemn nightingale be mute, 

And the soft woodlark here did never chant 

Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 

Sends inspirations from the shadowy heights, 

And blind recesses of the caverned rocks ; 

The little rills, and waters numberless, 

Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 

With the loud streams : and often, at the hour 

When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, 

Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 

One voice — the solitary raven, flying 

Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 

Unseen, perchance above all power of sight — 

An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 

Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 

The wanderer accompanies her flight 

Through the calm region, fades upon the ear 

Diminishing by distance till it seemed 

To expire ; yet from the abyss is caught again, 

And yet again recovered ! 

But descending 
From these imaginative heights, that yield 
Far-stretching views into eternity, 



154 THE EXCURSION. 

Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 

Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend 

Kven here, where her amenities are sown 

With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 

To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields, 

Where on the labors of the happy throng 

She smiles, including in her wide embrace 

City, and town, and tower, — and sea with ships 

Sprinkled ; — be our Companion while we track 

Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 

While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 

Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 

Roaming, or resting under grateful shade 

In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 

Where living things, and things inanimate, 

Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear, 

And speak to social reason's inner sense, 

With inarticulate language. 

For, the Man — 
Who, in this spirit, communes with the Forms 
Of nature, who with understanding heart 
Both knows and loves such objects as excite 
No morbid passions, no disquietude, 
No vengeance, and no hatred — needs must feel 
The joy of that pure principle of love 
So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
But seek for objects of a kindred love 
In fellow-natures and a kindred joy. 
Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
His feelings of aversion softened down; 
A holy tenderness pervades his frame. 
His sanity of reason not impaired, 
Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear, 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 155 

From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round 

And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks : 

Until abhorrence and contempt are things 

He only knows by name ; and, if he hear, 

From other mouths, the language which they speak, 

He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 

No feeling which can overcome his love. 

And further ! by contemplating these Forms 

In the relations which they bear to man, 

He shall discern, how, through the various means 

Which silently they yield, are multiplied 

The spiritual presences of absent things. 

Trust me, that for the instructed, time will come 

When they shall meet no object but may teach 

Some acceptable lesson to their minds 

Of human suffering or of human joy. 

So shall they learn, while all things speak of man, 

Their duties from all forms ; and general laws, 

And local accidents, shall tend alike 

To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 

The ability to spread the blessings wide 

Of true philanthropy. The light of love 

Not failing, perseverance from their steps 

Departing not, for them shall be confirmed 

The glorious habit by which sense is made 

Subservient still to moral purposes, 

Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 

The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 

The burthen of existence. Science then 

Shall be a precious visitant ; and then, 

And only then, be worthy of her name : 

For then her heart shall kindle ; her dull eye, 

Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 



156 THE EXCURSION. 

Chained to its object in brute slavery ; 
But taught with patient interest to watch 
The processes of things, and serve the cause 
Of order and distinctness, not for this 
Shall it forget that its most noblest use, 
Its most illustrious province, must be found 
In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive power. 
— So build we up the Being that we are ; 
Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things, 
We shall be wise perforce ; and, while inspired 
By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 
Shall move unswerving, even as if impelled 
By strict necessity, along the path 
Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine ; 
Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength, 
Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier heights 
Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 

Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue. 
Poured forth with fervor in continuous stream, 
Such as, remote, 'mid savage wilderness 
An Indian Chief discharges from his breast 
Into the hearing of assembled tribes, 
In open circle seated round, and hushed 
As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he speak : 
The words he uttered shall not pass away 
Dispersed, like music, that the wind takes up 
By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten ; 
No — they sank into me, the bounteous gift 
Of one whom time and nature had made wise, 
Gracing his doctrine with authority 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 157 

Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
Of one accustomed to desires that feed 
On fruitage gathered from the tree of life ; 
To hopes on knowledge and experience built ; 
Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
Had ripened into faith, and faith become 
A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
Though bound to earth by ties of pity and love, 
From all injurious servitude was free. 

The Sun, before his place of rest were reached, 
Had yet to travel far, but unto us, 
To us who stood low in that hollow dell, 
He had become invisible, — a pomp 
Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest ; 
A dispensation of his evening power. 
— Ad own the path that from the glen had led 
The funeral train, the Shepherd and his Mate 
Were seen descending : — forth to greet them ran 
Our little Page : the rustic pair approach ; 
And in the Matron's countenance may be read 
Plain indication that the words, which told 
How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
Before his time into a quiet grave, 
Had done to her humanity no wrong : 
But we are kindly welcomed — promptly served 
With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
A grateful couch was spread for our repose ; 
Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we lay, 
Stretched upon fragrant heath, and lulled by sound 
14 



158 THE EXCURSION. 

Of far-off torrents, charming the still night, 
And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts, 
Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK FIFTH, 



THE PASTOR, 



THE PASTOR. 



ARGUMENT. 



Farewell to the Valley — Reflections.— A large and populous vale de- 
scribed. — The Pastor's Dwelling, and some account of him.— Church 
and Monuments— The Solitary musing, and where.— Roused.— In the 
Churchyard the Solitary communicates the thoughts which had 
recently passed through his mind. — Lofty tone of the Wanderer's 
discourse of yesterday adverted to. — Rite of Baptism, and the profes- 
sions accompanying it, contrasted with the real state of human life. — 
Apology for the Rite. — Inconsistency of the best men. — Acknowledg- 
ment that practice falls far below the injunctions of duty as existing 
in the mind. — General complaint of a falling off in the value of life 
after the time of youth. — Outward appearances of content and happi- 
ness in degree illusive.— Pastor approaches.— Appeal made to him. 
— His answer. — Wanderer in sympathy with him. — Suggestion that 
the least ambitious inquirers may be most free from error. — The 
Pastor is desired to give some portraits of the living or dead from his 
own observation of life among these Mountains — and for what pur- 
pose.— Pastor consents.— Mountain cottage.— Excellent quality of its 
Inhabitants. — Solitary expresses his pleasure ; but denies the praise 
of virtue to worth of this kind. — Feelings of the Priest before he 
enters upon his account of persons interred in the Churchyard. — 
Graves of unbaptized Infants.— Funeral and sepulchral observances, 
whence. — Ecclesiastical establishments, whence derived. — Profession 
of belief in the doctrine of Immortality. 

" "pAREWELL, deep Valley, with thy one rude 

House, 
And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 
And guardian rocks ! — Farewell, attractive seat ! 
To the still influx of the morning light 
Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veiled 
From human observation, as if yet 
14* 161 



162 THE EXCURSION. 

Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark 
Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell, 
Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss, 
By Nature destined from the birth of things 
For quietness profound I" 

Upon the side 
Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale 
Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt, 
Lingering behind my comrades, thus I breathed 
A parting tribute to a spot that seemed 
Like the fixed centre of a troubled world. 
Again I halted with reverted eyes ; 
The chain that would not slacken, was at length 
Snapt, — and, pursuing leisurely my way, 
How vain, thought I, is it by change of place 
To seek that comfort which the mind denies ; 
Yet trial and temptation oft are shunned 
Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold, 
Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
To steal from active duties, and embrace 
Obscurity, and undisturbed repose. 
— Knowledge, methinks, in these disordered times, 
Should be allowed a privilege to have 
Her anchorites, like piety of old ; 
Men, who, from faction sacred, and unstained 
By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
Uncensured, and subsist, a scattered few 
Living to God and nature, and content 
With that communion. Consecrated be 
The spots where such abide ! But happier still 
The Man, whom, furthermore, a hope attends 



THE PASTOR. 163 

That meditation and research may guide 

His privacy to principles and powers 

Discovered or invented ; or set forth, 

Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth, 

In lucid order ; so that when his course 

Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 

He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 

His unobtrusive merit ; but his life, 

Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 

That shall survive his name and memory. 

Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
Accompanied these musings ; fervent thanks 
For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
A choice that from the passions of the world 
Withdrew, and fixed me in a still retreat ; 
Sheltered, but not to social duties lost, 
Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
Cheering my days, and with industrious thought ; 
With the ever-welcome company of books ; 
With virtuous friendship's soul- sustaining aid, 
And with the blessings of domestic love. 

Thus occupied in mind I paced along, 
Following the rugged road, by sledge or wheel 
Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
Halting together on a rocky knoll, 
Whence the bare road descended rapidly 
To the green meadows of another vale. 

Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
In sign of farewell. " Nay," the old Man said, 



164 THE EXCURSION. 

" The fragrant air its coolness still retains ; 
The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now, 
We must not part at this inviting hour." 
He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
Instinctively disposed him to retire 
To his own covert ; as a billow, heaved 
Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. 
— So we descend : and winding round a rock 
Attain a point that showed the valley — stretched 
In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower, 
Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 
And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 
Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed 
A copious stream with boldly-winding course ; 
Here traceable, there hidden — there again 
To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
On the stream's bank, and every where, appeared 
Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots ; 
Some scattered o'er the level, others perched 
On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 
Now in its morning purity arrayed. 

" As mid some happy valley of the Alps," 
Said I, " once happy, ere tyrannic power, 
Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
Destroyed their unoffending commonwealth, 
A popular equality reigns here, 
Save for yon stately House beneath whose roof 
A rural lord might dwell." — " No feudal pomp, 
Or power," replied the Wanderer, " to that House 



THE PASTOR. 165 

Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 
Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest, 
The shepherd of his flock ; or, as a king 
Is styled, when most affectionately praised, 
The father of his people. Such is he ; 
And rich and poor, and young and old, rejoice 
Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 
To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
And something also of his inner mind 
Hath he imparted — but I speak of him 
As he is known to all. 

The calm delights 
Of unambitious piety he chose, 
And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 
Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
From academic bowers. He loved the spot — 
Who does not love his native soil ? — he prized 
The ancient rural character, composed 
Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest 
And undisguised, and strong and serious thought ; 
A character reflected in himself, 
With such embellishments as well beseems 
His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 
Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, 
And one a turreted manorial hall 
Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors 
Have dwelt through ages — Patrons of this Cure. 
To them, and to his own judicious pains, 
The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain, 
Owes that presiding aspect which might well 
Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 



166 THE EXCURSION. 






Have been bestowed, through course of common 

chance, 
On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 

This said, oft pausing, we pursued our way \ 
Nor reached the village-churchyard till the sun 
Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 
Above the summits of the highest hills, 
And round our path darted oppressive beams. 

As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile 
Stood open ; and we entered. On my frame, 
At such transition from the fervid air, 
A grateful coolness fell, that seemed to strike 
The heart, in concert with that temperate awe 
And natural reverence which the place inspired. 
Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
But large and massy ; for duration built ; 
With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
By naked rafters intricately crossed, 
Like leafless underboughs, in some thick wood 
All withered by the depth of shade above. 
Admonitory texts inscribed the walls, 
Each, in its ornamental scroll, enclosed ; 
Each also crowned with winged heads — a pair 
Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 
Was occupied by oaken benches ranged 
In seemly rows ; the chancel only showed 
Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state 
By immemorial privilege allowed ; 
Though with the Encincture's special sanctity 
But ill according. An heraldic shield, 



THE PASTOR. 167 

Varying its tincture with the changeful light, 

Imbued the altar-window ; fixed aloft 

A faded hatchment hung, and one by time 

Yet undiscolored. A capacious pew 

Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined ; 

And marble monuments were here displayed 

Thronging the walls ; and on the floor beneath 

Sepulchral stones appeared, with emblems graven 

And foot- worn epitaphs, and some with small 

And shining effigies of brass inlaid. 

The tribute by these various records claimed, 
Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
The ordinary chronicle of birth, 
Office, alliance, and promotion — all 
Ending in dust ; of upright magistrates, 
Grave doctors strenuous for the mother-church, 
And uncorrupted senators, alike 
To king and people true. A brazen plate, 
Not easily deciphered, told of one 
Whose course of earthly honor was begun 
In quality of page among the train 
Of the eighth Henry, when he crossed the seas 
His royal state to show, and prove his strength 
In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
Another tablet registered the death, 
And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 
Near this brave Knight his Father lay entombed ; 
And, to the silent language giving voice, 
I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
He, mid the afflictions of intestine war 
And rightful government subverted, found 



168 THE EXCURSION. 

One only solace — that he had espoused 

A virtuous Lady tenderly beloved 

For her benign perfections ; and yet more 

Endeared to him, for this, that, in her state 

Of wedlock richly crowned with Heaven's regard, 

She with a numerous issue filled his house, 

Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm 

That laid their country waste. No need to speak 

Of less particular notices assigned 

To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, 

And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old ; 

Whose charity and goodness were rehearsed 

In modest panegyric. 

" These dim lines, 
What would they tell ?" said I, — but, from the task 
Of puzzling out that faded narrative, 
With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
Called me ; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 
I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 
Standing apart ; with curved arm reclined 
On the baptismal font ; his pallid face 
Upturned, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
In some abstraction ; — gracefully he stood, 
The semblance bearing of a sculptured form 
That leans upon a monumental urn 
In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 

Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse 
Who entered, humming carelessly a tune, 
Continuation haply of the notes 
That had beguiled the work from which he came, 
With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung ; 
To be deposited, for future need, 



THE PASTOR. 169 

In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
Withdrew ; and straight we followed, — to a spot 
Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 
A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
Small space of that green churchyard with a light 
And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
My ancient Friend and I together took 
Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake, 
Standing before us : — 

" Did you note the mien 
Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl, 
Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbor's grave, 
Or wraps an old acquaintance up in clay, 
All unconcerned as he would bind a sheaf, 
Or plant a tree. And did you hear his voice ? 
I was abruptly summoned by the sound 
From some affecting images and thoughts, 
Which then were silent ; but crave utterance now. 

Much," he continued, with dejected look, 
" Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 
Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
For future states of being ; and the wings 
Of speculation, joyfully outspread, 
Hovered above our destiny on earth : 
But stop, and place the prospect of the soul 
In sober contrast with reality, 
And man's substantial life. If this mute earth 
Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 
Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 
We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame, 
15 



170 THE EXCURSION. 

To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 
That which is done accords with what is known 
To reason, and by conscience is enjoined ; 
How idly, how perversely, life's whole course, 
To this conclusion, deviates from the line, 
Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
At her aspiring ou'set. 

Mark the babe 
Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 
One that hath barely learned m shape a smile, 
Though yet irrational of soul, to grasp 
With tiny finger — to let fall a tear ; 
And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 
To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem, 
The outward functions of intelligent man ; 
A grave proficient in amusive feats 
Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
His expectations, and announce his claims 
To that inheritance which millions rue 
That they were ever born to ! In due time 
A day of solemn ceremonial comes ; 
"When they, for this Minor hold in trust 
Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
Of mere humanity, present their Charge, 
For this occasion daintily adorned, 
At the baptismal font. And when the pure 
And consecrating element hath cleansed 
The original stain, the child is there received 
Into the second ark, Christ's church, with trust 
That he, from wrath redeemed, therein shall float 
Over the billows of this troublesome world 
To the fair land of everlasting life. 
Corrupt affections, covetous desires, 



THE PASTOR. 171 

Are all renounced ; high as the thought of man 

Can carry virtue, virtue is professed ; 

A dedication made, a promise given 

For due provision to control and guide, 

And unremitting progress to ensure 

In holiness and truth." 

" You cannot blame," 
Here interposing fervently I said, 
" Rites which attest that Man by nature lies 
Bedded for good and evil in a gulf 
Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment scorn 
Those services, whereby attempt is made 
To lift the creature toward that eminence 
On which, now fallen, ere while in majesty 
He stood ; or if not so, whose top serene 
At least he feels 'tis given him to descry ; 
Not without aspirations, evermore 
Returning, and injunctions from within 
Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trust 
That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost, 
May be, through pains and persevering hope 
Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown, 
Lies within reach, and one day shall be gained." 

" I blame them not," he calmly answered — " no ; 
The outward ritual and established forms 
With which communities of men invest 
These inward feelings, and the aspiring vows 
To which the lips give public utterance 
Are both a natural process ; and by me 
Shall pass uncensured ; though the issue prove, 
Bringing from age to age its own reproach, 
Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, oh ! 



172 THE EXCURSION. 

If to be weak is to be wretched — miserable, 
As the lost Angel by a human voice 
Hath mournfully pronounced, then, in my mind, 
Far better not to move at all than move 
By impulse sent from such illusive power, — 
That finds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps 
And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
That tempts, emboldens — for a time sustains, 
And then betrays ; accuses and inflicts 
Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
The inevitable circle : better far 
Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace, 
By foresight or remembrance, undisturbed ! 

Philosophy ! and thou more vaunted name 
Religion ! with thy statelier retinue, 
Faith, Hope, and Charity — from the visible world 
Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er you find 
Of safest guidance or of firmest trust — 
The torch, the star, the anchor ; nor except 
The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
The generations of mankind have knelt 
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
And through that conflict seeking rest — of you, 
High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask, 
Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky 
In faint reflection of infinitude 
Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet 
A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be laid, 
Where are your triumphs ? your dominion where ? 
And in what age admitted and confirmed ? 
— Not for a happy land do I inquire, 



THE PASTOR. 173 

Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 

Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 

To your serene authorities conform ; 

But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 

Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked ways, 

Inspired, and thoroughly fortified ? — If the heart 

Could be inspected to its inmost folds 

By sight undazzled with the glare of praise, 

Who shall be named — in the resplendent line 

Of sages, martyrs, confessors — the man 

Whom the best might of faith, wherever fix'd, 

For one day's little compass, has preserv'd 

From painful and discreditable shocks 

Of contradiction, from some vague desire 

Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse 

To some unsanctioned fear?" 

" If this be so, 
And Man," said I, "be in his noblest shape 
Thus pitiably infirm : then, he who made, 
And who shall judge the creature, will forgive. 
— Yet, in its general tenor, your complaint 
Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced : 
For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such 

thoughts 
Rise to the notice of a serious mind 
By natural exhalation. With the dead 
In their repose, the living in their mirth, 
Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
Of smooth and solemnized complacencies, 
By which, on Christian lands, from age to age 
Profession mocks performance. Earth is sick, 
And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 
15* 



174 THE EXCURSION. 

Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 

And social neighborhood ; look we to ourselves ; 

A light of duty shines on every day 

For all ; and yet how few are warmed or cheered ! 

How few who mingle with their fellow-men 

And still remain self-governed, and apart, 

Like this our honored Friend ; and thence acquire 

Right to expect his vigorous decline, 

That promises to the end a blest old age !" 

" Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 
The Solitary, " in the life of man, 
If to the poetry of common speech 
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
A true reflection of the circling year, 
With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there, 
In spite of many a rough untoward blast, 
Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers ; 
Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day, 
That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit, 
Where is she imaged ? in what favored clime 
Her lavish pomp, and ripe magnificence ? 
— Yet, while the better part is missed, the worse 
In man's autumnal season is set forth 
With a resemblance not to be denied, 
And that contents him ; bowers that hear no more 
The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves, 
Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway. 



THE PASTOR. 175 

How gay the habitations that bedeck 
This fertile valley ! Not a house but seems 
To give assurance of content within; 
Embosomed happiness, and placid love ; 
As if the sunshine of the day were met 
With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
Who walk this favored ground. But chance-regards, 
And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 
These, if these only, acting in despite 
Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
And noiseless commonwealth. The simple race 
Of mountaineers (by Nature's self removed 
From foul temptations, and by constant care 
Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 
Do tend their flocks) partake man's general lot 
With little mitigation. They escape, 
Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt ; feel not 
The tedium of fantastic idleness : 
Yet life, as with the multitude, with them 
Is fashioned like an ill- constructed tale ; 
That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes, 
And pleasant interests — for the sequel leaving 
Old things repeated with diminished grace ; 
And all the labored novelties at best 
Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." 

While in this serious mood we held discourse, 
The reverend Pastor toward the church-yard gate 
Approached ; and, with a mild, respectful air 



176 THE EXCURSION. 

Of native cordiality, our Friend 

Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 

Was he received, and mutual joy prevailed. 

Awhile they stood in conference, and I guess 

That he, who now upon the mossy wall 

Sate by my side, had vanished, if a wish 

Could have transferred him to the flying clouds, 

Or the least penetrable hiding-place 

In his own valley's rocky guardianship. 

— For me, I looked upon the pair, well pleased : 

Nature had framed them both, and both were marked 

By circumstance, with intermixture fine 

Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 

Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak, 

Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 

One might be likened : flourishing appeared, 

Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 

The other — like a stately sycamore, 

That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honeyed shade. 

A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
The Pastor learned that his approach had given 
A welcome interruption to discourse 
Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is Man 
A child of hope ? Do generations press 
On generations, without progress made ? 
Halts the individual, ere his hairs be grey, 
Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom good 
Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the will 
Acknowledge reason's law ? A living power 
Is virtue, or no better than a name, 
Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
So that the only substance which remains, 



THE PASTOR. 177 

(For thus the tenor of complaint hath run) 

Among so many shadows, are the pains 

And penalties of miserable life, 

Doomed to decay, and then expire in dust ! 

— Our cogitations this way ha^e been drawn, 

These are the points," the Wanderer said, " on which 

Our inquest turns. — Accord, good Sir ! the light 

Of your experience to dispel this gloom : 

By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart 

That frets, or languishes, be stilled and cheered." 

"Our nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 
" Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive 
With undistempered and unclouded spirit, 
The object as it is ; but, for ourselves, 
That speculative height we may not reach. 
The good and evil are our own ; and we 
Are that which we would contemplate from far. 
Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
As virtue's self ; like virtue is beset 
With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay. 
Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 
Blind were we without these : through these alone 
Are capable to notice or discern 
Or to record ; we judge, but cannot be 
Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 
Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 
An effort only, and a noble aim ; 
A crown, an attribute of sovereign power, 
Still to be courted — never to be won. 
— Look forth, or each man dive into himself; 
What sees he but a creature too perturbed ; 






178 THE EXCURSION. 

That is transported to excess ; that yearns, 
Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 
Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils ; 
Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair ? 
Thus comprehension fails, and truth is missed ; 
Thus darkness and delusion round our path 
Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks 
Within the very faculty of sight. 

Yet for the general purposes of faith 
In Providence, for solace and support, 
We may not doubt that who can best subject 
The will to reason's law, can strictliest live 
And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
The clearest apprehension of those truths, 
Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this, 
And our regards confining within bounds 
Of less exalted consciousness, through which 
The very multitude are free to range, 
We safely may affirm that human life 
Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view ; 
Even as the same is looked at, or approached. 
Thus, when in changeful April fields are white 
With new-fallen snow, if from the sullen north 
Your walk conduct you hither, ere the sun 
Hath gained his noontide height, this churchyard, 

filled 
With mounds transversely lying side by side 
From east to west, before you will appear 
An unillumined, blank, and dreary, plain, 



THE PASTOR. 179 

With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom 
Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back ; 
Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light, 
Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall, 
Upon the southern side of every grave 
Have gently exercised a melting power ; 
Then will a vernal prospect greet your eye, 
All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright, 
Hopeful and cheerful : — vanished is the pall 
That overspread and chilled the sacred turf, 
Vanished or hidden ; and the whole domain, 
To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. 
— This contrast, not unsuitable to life, 
Is to that other state more apposite, 
Death and its two-fold aspect ! wintry — one, 
Gold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out; 
The other, which the ray divine hath touched, 
Replete with vivid promise, bright as spring." 

" We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus 
With a complacent animation spake, 
" And in your judgment, Sir ! the mind's repose 
On evidence is not to be ensured 
By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
And which, once built retains a stedfast shape 
And undisturbed proportions ; but a thing 
Subject, you deem, to vital accidents ; 
And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, 
Whose root is fixed in stable earth, whose head 
Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 



180 THE EXCURSION. 

I re-salute these sentiments confirmed 
By your authority. But how acquire 
The inward principle that gives effect 
To outward argument ; the passive will 
Meek to admit ; the active energy, 
Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
To keep and cherish ? how shall man unite 
"With self-forgetting tenderness of heart 
And earth- despising dignity of soul ? 
Wise in that union, and without it blind !" 

" The way," said I, "to court, if not obtain 
The ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright : 
This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
From visible nature, or the inner self 
Power may be trained, and renovation brought 
To those who need the gift. But, after all, 
Is aught so certain as that man is doomed 
To breathe beneath a vault of ignorance ? 
The natural roof of that dark house in which 
His soul is pent ! How little can be known — 
This is the wise man's sigh ; how far we err — 
This is the good man's not unfrequent pang ! 
And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
Whom a benign necessity compels 
To follow reason's least ambitious course ; 
Such do I mean who, unperplexed by doubt, 
And unincited by a wish to look 
Into high objects farther than they may, 
Pace to and fro, from morn till even-tide, 
The narrow avenue of daily toil 
For daily bread." 



THE PASTOR. 181 

" Yes," buoyantly exclaimed 
The pale Recluse — " praise to the sturdy plough, 
And patient spade ; praise to the simple crook, 
And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
Body and mind in one captivity ; 
And let the light mechanic tool be hailed 
With honor ; which, encasing by the power 
Of long companionship, the artist's hand, 
Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 
From a too busy commerce with the heart ! 
— Inglorious implements of craft and toil, 
Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
By slow solicitation, earth to yield 
Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
With wise reluctance ; you would I extol, 
Nor for gross good alone which ye produce, 
But for the impertinent and ceaseless strife 
Of proofs and reasons ye preclude — in those 
Who to your dull society are born, 
And with their humble birthright rest content. 
— Would I had ne'er renounced it !" 

A slight flush 
Of moral anger previously had tinged 
The old Man's cheek ; but, at this closing turn 
Of self-reproach, it passed away. Said he, 
" That which we feel we utter ; as we think 
So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
No visible recompense. For our relief 
You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
" Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
Your further help ? The mine of real life 
Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 
Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 
16 



182 THE EXCURSION. 

Fruitless as those of aery alchemists, 
Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 
Around us a domain where you have long 
Watched both the outward course and inner heart : 
Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts ; 
For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man 
He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 
"What qualities of mind she bears, who comes 
For morn and evening service, with her pail, 
To that green pasture ; place before our sight 
The family who dwell within yon house 
Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 
Below, from which the curling smoke ascends. 
Or rather, as we stand on holy earth, 
And have the dead around us, take from them 
Your instances ; for they are both best known, 
And by frail man most equitably judged. 8 
Epitomize the life ; pronounce, you can, 
Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, 
Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet ; 
So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 
And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
To prize the breath we share with human kind ; 
And look upon the dust of man with awe." 

The Priest replied — " An office you impose 
For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
Yet much, I feel, is wanting — else the task 
Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
That they whom death has hidden from our sight 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with these 
The future cannot contradict the past ; 



THE PASTOR. 183 

Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 
The very Soul, revealed as she departs. 
Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
Ere we descend into these silent vaults, 
One picture from the living. 

You behold, 
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark 
With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
And such it might be deemed — a sleeping sunbeam 
But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground, 
Cut off, an island in the dusky waste ; 
And that attractive brightness is its own. 
The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 
Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
The tiller's hand, a hermit might have chosen, 
For opportunity presented, thence 
Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 
And ocean, and look down upon the works, 
The habitations, and the ways of men, 
Himself unseen ! But no tradition tells 
That ever hermit dipped his maple dish 
In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields ; 
And no such visionary views belong 
To those who occupy and till the ground, 
High on that mountain where they long have dwelt 
A wedded pair in childless solitude. 
A house of stones collected on the spot, 
By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 
Backed also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
Of birch-trees waves over the chimney top ; 



184 THE EXCURSION. 

A rough abode — in color, shape, and size, 

Such as in unsafe times of border-war 

Might have been wished for and contrived, to elude 

The eye of roving plunderer — for their need 

Suffices ; and unshaken bears the assault 

Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west 

In anger blowing from the distant sea. 

— Alone within her solitary hut ; 

There, or within the compass of her fields, 

At any moment may the Dame be found, 

True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest 

And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles 

By intermingled work of house and field 

The summer's day, and winter's ; with success 

Not equal, but sufficient to maintain, 

Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content, 

Until the expected hour at which her Mate 

From the far-distant quarry's vault returns ; 

And by his converse crowns a silent day 

With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind, 

In scale of culture, few among my flock 

Hold lower rank than this sequestered pair : 

But true humility descends from heaven ; 

And that best gift of heaven hath fallen on them ; 

Abundant recompense for every want. 

— Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these ! 

Who, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 

The voice of wisdom whispering scripture texts 

For the mind's government, or temper's peace ; 

And recommending for their mutual need, 

Forgiveness, patience, hope, and charity I" 



THE PASTOR. 185 

" Much was I pleased," the grey -haired Wanderer 

said, 
" When to those shining fields our notice first 
You turned ; and yet more pleased have from your 

lips 
Gathered this fair report of them who dwell 
In that retirement ; whither, by such course 
Of evil hap or good as oft awaits 
A tired way-faring man, once / was brought 
While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 
Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell, 
And night succeeded with unusual gloom, 
So hazardous that feet and hands became 
Guides better than mine eyes — until a light 
High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 
For human habitation ; but I longed 
To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
I looked with steadiness as sailors look 
On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp, 
And saw the light — now fixed — and shifting now — 
Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
Of never varying motion, to and fro. 
It is no night-fire of the naked hills, 
Thought I — some friendly covert must be near. 
With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
I turn, and reach at last the guiding light ; 
Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
Who there was standing on the open hill, 
(The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath 

praised) 
Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
Ceased, when she learned through what mishap I 

came, 



186 THE EXCURSION. 

And by what help had gained those distant fields. 

Drawn from her cottage on that aery height, 

Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood, 

Or paced the ground — to guide her Husband home, 

By that unwearied signal, kenned afar : 

An anxious duty ! which the lofty site, 

Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 

Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 

Detains him after his accustomed hour 

Till night lies black upon the ground. ' But come, 

Come,' said the Matron, ' to our poor abode ; 

Those dark rocks hide it !' Entering, I beheld 

A blazing fire — beside a cleanly hearth 

Sate down; and to her office, with leave asked, 

The dame returned. 

Or ere that glowing pile 
Of mountain turf required the builder's hand 
Its wasted splendor to repair, the door 
Opened, and she re-entered with glad looks, 
Her Help-mate following. Hospitable fare, 
Frank conversation, made the evening's treat 
Need a bewildered traveller wish for more ? 
But more was given ; I studied as we sate 
By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face, 
Not less than beautiful ; an open brow 
Of undisturbed humanity ; a cheek 
Suffused with something of a feminine hue ; 
Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard ; 
But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
A tardy apprehension. From a fount 
Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, 
But honored once, those features and that mien 



THE PASTOR. 187 

May have descended, though I see them here. 
In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 
Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
A race illustrious for heroic deeds, 
Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
This pleasing fancy (cherished and upheld 
By sundry recollections of such fall 
From high to low, ascent from low to high, 
As books record, and even the careless mind 
Cannot but notice among men and things) 
Went with me to the place of my repose. 

Roused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 
I yet had risen too late to interchange 
A morning salutation with my Host, 
Gone forth already to the far-off seat 
Of his day's work. ' Three dark mid-winter months 

* Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see, 

' Save when the Sabbath brings its kind release, 

* My Helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 

* His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 

* And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the 

bread 
' For which we pray; and for the wants provide 
' Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
' Companions have I many ; many friends, 

* Dependants, comforters — my wheel, my fire, 
' All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, 

1 The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood. 

' And the wild birds that gather round my porch. 

* This honest sheep dog's countenance I read ; 

* With him can talk ; nor blush to waste a word 
' On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 



188 THE EXCURSION. 

* And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds 

' Care not for me, he lingers round my door, 

' And makes me pastime when our tempers suit ; — 

' But, above all, my thoughts are my support, 

' My comfort : — would that they were oftener fixed 

' On what, for guidance in the way that leads 

1 To heaven I know, by my Redeemer taught.' 

The Matron ended — nor could I forbear 

To exclaim — *■ happy ! yielding to the law 

Of these privations, richer in the main ! — 

While thankless thousands are opprest and clogged 

By ease and leisure ; by the very wealth 

And pride of opportunity made poor ; 

While tens of thousands falter in their path, 

And sink, through utter want of cheering light; 

For you the hours of labor do not flag ; 

For you each evening hath its shining star, 

And every Sabbath-day its golden sun.' " 

" Yes !" said the Solitary with a smile 
That seemed to break from an expanding heart, 
" The untutored bird may found, and so construct, 
And with such soft materials line, her nest 
Fixed in the centre of a prickly brake, 
That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard, 
Powers not unjustly likened to those gifts 
Of happy instinct which the woodland bird 
Shares with her species, nature's grace sometimes 
Upon the individual doth confer, 
Among her higher creatures born and trained 
To use of reason. And, I own that, tired 
Of the ostentatious world — a swelling stage 
With empty actions and vain passions stuffed, 



THE PASTOR. 189 

And from the private struggles of mankind 

Hoping far less than I could wish to hope, 

Far less than once I trusted and believed — 

I love to hear of those, who, not contending 

Nor summoned to contend for virtue's prize, 

Miss not the humbler good at which they aim, 

Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 

The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 

Into their contraries the petty plagues 

And hindrances with which they stand beset. 

In early youth, among my native hills, 

I knew a Scottish Peasant who possessed 

A few small crofts or stone-encumbred ground ; 

Masses of every shape and size, that lay 

Scattered about under the mouldering walls 

Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart, 

In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 

As if the moon had showered them down in spite. 

But he repined not. Though the plough was scared 

By these obstructions, ' round the shady stones 

A fertilising moisture/ said the Swain, 

1 Gathers, and is preserved ; and feeding dews 

' And damps, through all the droughty summer day 

' From out their substance issuing, maintain 

« Herbage that never fails : no grass springs up 

' So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine !' 

But thinly sown these natures : rare, at least, 

The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 

That yields such kindly product. He, whose bed 

Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 

Brought yesterday from our sequestered dell 

Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, 

If living now, could otherwise report 



190 THE EXCURSION. 

Of rustic loneliness : that grey-haired Orphan — 

So call him, for humanity to him 

No parent was — feelingly could have told, 

In life, in death, what solitude can breed 

Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 

Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. 

— But your compliance, Sir ! with our request 

My words too long have hindered." 

Undeterred, 
Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
In no ungracious opposition, given 
To the confiding spirit of his own 
Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said, 
Around him looking ; " Where shall I begin ? 
Who shall be first selected from my flock 
Gathered together in their peaceful fold ?" 
He paused — and having lifted up his eyes 
To the pure heaven, he cast them down again 
Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake * — 

"Toa mysteriously-united pair 
This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
And to the best affections that proceed 
From their conjunction ; consecrate to faith 
In him who bled for man upon the cross ; 
Hallowed to revelation ; and no less 
To reason's mandates ; and the hopes divine 
Of pure imagination ; — above all, 
To charity, and love, that have provided, 
Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
And receptacle, open to the good 
And evil, to the just and the unjust ; 
In which they find an equal resting-place : 



THE PASTOR. 191 

Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 

And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, 

Whether their course be turbulent or smooth, 

Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 

Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 

And end their journey in the same repose ! 

And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know, 
While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, 
That all beneath us by the wings are covered 
Of motherly humanity, outspread 
And gathering all within their tender shade, 
Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field, 
In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
With this compared, makes a strange spectacle ! 
A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn 
With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old 
Wandering about in miserable search 
Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea 
Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who would think 
That all the scattered subjects which compose 
Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
Of all her climes — these wretched, these depraved 
To virtue lost, insensible of peace, 
From the delights of charity cut off, 
To pity dead, the oppressor and the opprest ; 
Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
And slaves who will consent to be destroyed — 
Were of one species with the sheltered few, 
Who, with a dutiful and tender hand, 
Lodged, in a dear, appropriated spot, 
This file of infants ; some that never breathed 
The vital air ; others, which, though allowed 



192 THE EXCURSION. 

That privilege, did yet expire too soon, 

Or with too brief a warning, to admit 

Adminstration of the holy rite 

That lovingly consigns the babe to the arms 

Of Jesus, and his everlasting care. 

These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 

And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired 

Till he begins to smile upon the breast 

That feeds him ; and the tottering little-one 

Taken from air and sunshine when the rose 

Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 

The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy ; the bold youth 

Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid 

Smitten while all the promises of life 

Are opening round her ; those of middle age, 

Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 

Like pillars fixed more firmly, as might seem, 

And more secure, by very weight of all 

That, for support, rests on them ; the decayed 

And burthenseme ; and lastly, that poor few 

Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 

The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last, 

The earliest summoned and the longest spared — 

Are here deposited, with tribute paid 

Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 

As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 

Society were touched with kind concern, 

And gentle ' Nature grieved, that one should die 

Or, if the change demanded no regret, 

Observed the liberating stroke — and blessed. 

And whence that tribute ? wherefore these re- 
gards ? 



THE PASTOR. 193 

Not from the naked Heart alone of Man 
(Though claiming high distinction upon earth 
As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears, 
His own peculiar utterance for distress 
Or gladness) — No," the philosophic Priest 
Continued, " 't is not in the vital seat 
Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure ; 
With her two faculties of eye and ear 
The one by which a creature, whom his sins 
Have rendered prone, can upward look to heaven ; 
The other that empowers him to perceive 
The voice of Deity, on height and plain, 
Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Word, 
To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims. 
Not without such assistance could the use 
Of these benign observances prevail : 
Thus are they born, thus fostered, thus maintained, 
And by the care prospective of our wise 
Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks 
The fluctuation and the decay of things, 
Embodied and established these high truths 
In solemn institutions : — men convinced 
That life is love and immortality, 
The being one, and one the element, 
There lies the channel, and original bed, 
From the beginning, hollowed out and scooped 
For Man's affections — else betrayed and lost, 
And swallowed up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
Of prescient reason ; all conclusions else 
Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
17 



194 THE EXCURSION. 

The faith partaking of those holy times, 
Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
Divine or human ; exercised in pain, 
In strife, and tribulation ; and ordained, 
If so approved and sanctified, to pass, 
Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy.' 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK SIXTH. 

THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS. 



THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS. 



AKGUMENT. 



Poet's Address to the State and Church of England.— The Pastor not 
inferior to the ancient Worthies of the Church.— He begins his Narra- 
tives with an instance of unrequited Love.— Anguish of mind sub- 
dued, and how. — The lonely Miner. — An instance of perseverance — 
Which leads by contrast to an example of abused talents, irresolution, 
and weakness. — Solitary, applying this covertly to his own case, asks 
for an instance of some Stranger, whose dispositions may have led 
him to end his days here. — Pastor, in answer, gives an account of the 
harmonizing influence of Solitude upon two men of opposite prin- 
ciples, who had encountered agitations in public life. — The rule by 
which Peace may be obtained expressed, and where. — Solitary hints 
at an overpowering Fatality.— Answer of the Pastor.— What subjects 
he will exclude from hie Narrative. — Conversation upon this. — Instance 
of an unamiable character, a Female, and why given. — Contrasted 
with this, a meek sufferer, from unguarded and betrayed love. — 
Instance of heavier guilt, and its consequences to the Offender.— 
With this instance of a Marriage Contract broken is contrasted one of 
a Widower, evidencing his faithful affection towards his deceased wife 
by his care of their female Children. 

Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped — to gird 
An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the throne 
Whereon he sits ! Whose deep foundations lie 
In veneration and the people's love ; 
Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. 
— Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
With this a salutation as devout, 
Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church ; 
17* 197 



198 THE EXCURSION. 

Founded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom reared 
In beauty of holiness, with ordered pomp, 
Decent and unreproved. The voice, that greets 
The majesty of both, shall pray for both ; 
That, mutually protected and sustained, 
They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
This favored Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 

And 0, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains ! 
Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers, 
And spires whose ' silent finger points to heaven f u 
Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud 
Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
To intercept the sun's glad beams — may ne'er 
That true succession fail of English hearts, 
Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
What in those holy structures ye possess 
Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
Of pious sentiment diffused afar, 
And human charity, and social love. 
— Thus never shall the indignities of time 
Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
And, if the desolating hand of war 
Spare them, they shall continue to bestow, 
Upon the thronged abodes of busy men 
(Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
Exclusively with transitory things) 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 199 

An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 

The Poet, fostering for his native land 
Such hope, entreats that servants may abound 
Of those pure altars worthy ; ministers 
Detached from pleasure, to the love of gain 
Superior, insusceptible of pride, 
And by ambitious longings undisturbed ; 
Men whose delight is where their duty leads 
Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 
Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 
Which makes the Sabbath lovely in the sight 
Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. 
— And, as on earth it is the doom of truth 
To be perpetually attacked by foes 
Open or covert, be that priesthood still, 
For her defence, replenished with a band 
Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts 
Thoroughly disciplined ; (if in the course 
Of the revolving world's disturbances 
Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert ! 
To meet such trial, (from their spiritual sires 
Degenerate ; who, constrained to wield the sword 
Of disputation, shrunk not, though assailed 
With hostile din, and combating in sight 
Of angry umpires, partial and unjust ; 
And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire, 
So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 
But, blessing God and praising him, bequeathed 
With their last breath, from out the smouldering 
flame, 



200 THE EXCURSION. 

The faith which they by diligence had earned, 
Or, through illuminating grace, received, 
For their dear countrymen, and all mankind. 
high example, constancy divine ! 

Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 
And from the sanctity of elder times 
Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom, 
If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 
Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
Fraught with the relics of mortality, 
Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
The head and mighty paramount of truths, — 
Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
For mortal creatures, conquered and secured. 

That basis laid, those principles of faith 
Announced, as a preparatory act 
Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 
The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground ; 
Not, as before, like one oppressed with awe, 
But with a mild and social cheerfulness ; 
Then to the Solitary turned, and spake. 

" At morn or eve, in your retired domain, 
Perchance you not unfrequently have marked 
A Visitor — in quest of herbs and flowers ; 
Too delicate employ, as would appear, 
For one, who, though of drooping mien, had yet 
From nature's kindliness received a frame 
Robust as ever rural labor bred." 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 201 

The Solitary answered : " Such a Form 
Full well I recollect. We often crossed 
Each other's path ; but, as the Intruder seemed 
Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
And I as willingly did cherish mine, 
We met, and passed, like shadows. I have heard, 
From my good Host, that being crazed in brain 
By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, 
Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 
In hope to find some virtuous herb of power 
To cure his malady ! 

The Vicar smiled, — 
" Alas ! before to-morrow's sun goes down 
His habitation will be here : for him 
That open grave is destined." 

" Died he then 
Of pain and grief?" the Solitary asked, 
" Do not believe it ; never could that be !" 

" He loved," the Yicar answered, " deeply loved, 
Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
Rejected, yea repelled ; and, if with scorn 
Upon the haughty maiden's brow, 't is but 
A high- prized plume which female Beauty wears 
In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
Humiliation, when no longer free. 
That he could brook, and glory in ; — but when 
The tidings came that she whom he had wooed 
Was wedded to another, and his heart 
Was forced to rend away its only hope ; 
Then, Pity could have scarcely found on earth 



202 THE EXCURSION. 

An object worthier of regard than he, 
In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer say- 
That in the act of preference he had been 
Unjustly dealt with ; but the Maid was gone ! 
Had vanished from his prospects and desires ; 
Not by translation to the heavenly choir 
Who have put off their mortal spoils — ah no ! 
She lives another's wishes to complete, — 
' Joy be their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
' His lot and hers, as misery must be mine !' 

Such was that strong concussion ; but the Man, 
Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak 
By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
The stedfast quiet natural to a mind 
Of composition gentle and sedate, 
And, in its movements, circumspect and slow. 
To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
O'er which enchained by science he had loved 
To bend, he stoutly re-addressed himself, 
Resolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 
With keener appetite (if that might be) 
And closer industry. Of what ensued 
Within the heart no outward sign appeared 
Till a betraying sickliness was seen 
To tinge his cheek ; and through his frame it crept 
With slow mutation unconcealable ; 
Such universal change as autumn makes 
In the fair body of a leafy grove 
Discolored, then divested. 

'Tis affirmed 
By poets skilled in nature's secret ways 






THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 203 

That Love will not submit to be controlled 

By mastery : — and the good Man lacked not friend 

Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, 

A mind in all heart-mysteries unversed. 

* Go to the hills,' said one, ' remit awhile 

' This baneful diligence :— -at early morn 

' Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods ; 

' And, leaving it to others to foretell, 

1 By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 

1 Of tides, and when the moon will be eclipsed, 

1 Do you, for your own benefit, construct 

' A calendar of flowers, plucked as they blow 

' Where health abides and cheerfulness, and peace.' 

The attempt was made ; — 'tis needless to report 

How hopelessly ; but innocence is strong, 

And an entire simplicity of mind 

A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven ; 

That opens, for such sufferers, relief 

Within the soul, fountains of grace divine ; 

And doth commend their weakness and disease 

To Nature's care, assisted in her office • 

By all the elements that round her wait 

To generate, to preserve, and to restore ; 

And by her beautiful array of forms 

Shedding sweet influence from above ; or pure 

Delight exhaling from the ground they tread." 

" Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaimed 
The Wanderer, " I infer that he was healed 
By perseverance in the course prescribed." 

" You do not err : the powers, that had been lost 
By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 



204 THE EXCURSION. 

The fluttering nerves composed ; the beating heart 
In rest established ; and the jarring thoughts 
To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength, 
Hastily smitten by a fever's force ; 
Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
Time to look back with tenderness on her 
"Whom he had loved in passion ; and to send 
Some farewell words — with one, but one, request ; 
That, from his dying hand, she would accept 
Of his possessions that which most he prized ; 
A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants, 
By his own hand disposed with nicest care, 
In undecaying beauty were preserved ; 
Mute register, to him, of time and place, 
And various fluctuations in the breast ; 
To her, a monument of faithful love 
Conquered, and in tranquillity retained ! 

Close to his destined habitation, lies 
One who achieved a humbler victory, 
Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is 
High in these mountains, that allured a band 
Of keen adventurers to unite their pains 
In search of precious ore : they tried, were foiled — 
And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts, 
And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 
Passed on, while still his lonely efforts found 
"No recompense, derided ; and at length, 
By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 205 

By others dreaded as the luckless thrall 

Of subterranean Spirits feeding hope 

By various mockery of sight and sound ; 

Hope after hope, encouraged and destroyed. 

— But when the lord of seasons had matured 

The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, 

The mountain's entrails offered to his view 

And trembling grasp the long-deferred reward. 

Not with more transport did Columbus greet 

A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 

A very hero till his point was gained, 

Proved all unable to support the weight 

Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he looked 

With an unsettled liberty of thought, 

Wishes and endless schemes ; by daylight walked 

Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 

Quaffed in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 

And truly might be said to die of joy ! 

He vanished ; but conspicuous to this day 

The path remains that linked his cottage-door 

To the mine's mouth ; a long and slanting track, 

Upon the rugged mountain's stony side, 

Worn by his daily visits to and from 

The darksome centre of a constant hope. 

This vestige, neither force of beating rain, 

Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 

Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away ; 

And it is named, in memory of the event, 

The Path of Perseverance." 

" Thou from whom 
Man has his strength," exclaimed the Wanderer, " oh ! 
Do thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
The penetrative eye which can perceive 
18 



206 THE EXCURSION. 

In this blind world the guiding vein of hope ; 
That, like this Laborer, such may dig their way, 
* Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ;' 
Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve !" 

" That prayer were not superfluous," said the 
Priest, 
" Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust, 
That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 
Within the bosom of her awful pile, 
Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh, 
Which wafts that prayer to heaven, is due to all, 
Wherever laid, who living fell below 
Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of pain 
If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
How would you pity her who yonder rests ; 
Him, farther off ; the pair, who here are laid ; 
But, above all, that mixture of earth's mould 
Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind 
Recals ! 

He lived not till his locks were nipped 
By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
Before his temples, prematurely forced 
To mix the manly brown with silver grey, 
Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurped 
The natural crown that sage Experience wears. 
Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
Or could perform ; a zealous actor, hired 
Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
Into the lists of giddy enterprise — 
Such was he ; yet, as if within his frame 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 207 

Two several souls alternately had lodged, 

Two sets of manners could the Youth put on ; 

And, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 

That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage, 

Was graceful when it pleased him, smooth and still 

As the mute swan that floats adown the stream, 

Or, on the waters of the unruffled lake, 

Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf, 

That flutters on the bough, lighter than he ; 

And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, 

More winningly reserved ! If ye inquire 

How such consummate elegance was bred 

Amid those wilds, this answer may suffice ; 

'T was Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes, 

For the reproof of human vanity, 

Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 

Hence, for this Favorite — lavishly endowed 

With personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit, 

While both, embellishing each other, stood 

Yet farther recommended by the charm 

Of fine demeanor, and by dance and song, 

And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 

Fair expectations ; nor, when to the world's 

Capacious field forth went the Adventurer, there 

Were he and his attainments overlooked, 

Or scantily rewarded ; but all hopes, 

Cherished for him, he suffered to depart, 

Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimicked land 

Before the sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 

That sparkling decked the morning grass ; or aught 

That was attractive, and hath ceased to be ! 



208 THE EXCURSION. 

Yet, when this Prodigal returned, the rites 
Of joyful greeting were on him bestowed, 
Who, by humiliation undeterred, 
Sought for his weariness a place of rest 
Within his Father's gates.— Whence came he? — 

clothed 
In tattered garb, from hovels where abides 
Necessity, the stationary host 
Of vagrant poverty ; from rifted barns 
Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl 
And the owl's prey ; from these bare haunts, to which 
He had descended from the proud saloon, 
He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 
The wreck of gaiety ! But soon revived 
In strength, in power refitted, he renewed 
His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
Upon a fickle Ingrate. Thrice he rose, 
Thrice sank as willingly. For he — whose nerves 
Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his voice 
Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, 
By the nice finger of fair ladies touched 
In glittering halls — was able to derive 
No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
Who happier for the moment — who more blithe 
Than this fallen Spirit ? in those dreary holds 
His talents leading to exalt the freaks 
Of merry-making beggars, — now, provoked 
To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
By his malicious wit ; then, all enchained 
With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
In their own hearts outdone, their fame eclipsed, 
As by the very presence of the Fiend 
Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 209 

For knavish purposes ! The city, too, 

(With shame I speak it) to her guilty bowers 

Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 

As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 

Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment ; 

Charming the air with skill of hand or voice, 

Listen who would, be wrought upon who might, 

Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. 

— Such the too frequent tenor of his boast 

In ears that relished the report ; — but all 

Was from his Parents happily concealed ; 

Who saw enough for blame and pitying love. 

They also were permitted to receive 

His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 

No more to open on that irksome world 

Where he had long existed in the state 

Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatched, 

Though from another sprung, different in kind : 

Where he had lived, and could not cease to live, 

Distracted in propensity ; content 

With neither element of good or ill ; 

And yet in both rejoicing ; man unblest ; 

Of contradictions infinite the slave, 

Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 

One with himself, and one with them that sleep." 

" 'T is strange," observed the Solitary, " strange 
It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
That in a land where charity provides 
For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
A man like this should choose to bring his shame 
To the parental door ; and with his sighs 
Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
18* 



210 THE EXCURSION. 



In happy infancy. He could not pine, 
Through lack of converse ; no — he must have found 
Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 
In his dividual being, self-reviewed, 
Self-catechised, self-punished. — Some there are 
Who, drawing near their final home, and much 
And daily longing that the same were reached, 
Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
Of kindred mould. — Such haply here are laid ?" 

" Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of our hills— 
Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast 
Round his domain, desirous not alone 
To keep his own, but also to exclude 
All other progeny — doth sometimes lure, 
Even by his studied depth of privacy, 
The unhappy alien hoping to obtain 
Concealment, or seduced by wish to find, 
In place from outward molestation free, 
Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
Could I discourse ; but as their stay was brief, 
So their departure only left behind 
Fancies and loose conjectures. Other trace 
Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
Who, from the pressure of their several fates, 
Meeting as strangers, in a petty town 
Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
Of this far- winding vale, remained as friends 
True to their choice ; and gave their bones in trust 
To this loved cemetery, here to lodge 
With unescutcheoned privacy interred 
Far from the family vault. — A Chieftain one 
By right of birth ; within whose spotless breast 






THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 211 

The fire of ancient Caledonia burned : 

He, with the foremost, whose impatience hailed 

The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 

Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost, 

Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their head, 

With his brave sword, endeavored to prevent 

Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 

From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 

He fled ; and when the lenient hand of time 

Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gained, 

For his obscured condition, an obscure 

Retreat, within this nook of English ground. 

The other, born in Britain's southern tract, 
Had fixed his milder loyalty, and placed 
His gentler sentiments of love and hate, 
There, where they placed them who in conscience 

prized 
The new succession, as a line of kings 
Whose oath had virtue to protect the land 
Against the dire assaults of papacy 
And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
On the distempered flood of public life, 
And cause for most rare triumph will be thine 
If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
The stream, that bears thee forward, prove not, soon 
Or late, a perilous master. He — who oft, 
Beneath the battlements and stately trees 
That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, 
Had moralized on this, and other truths 
Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied — 
Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness, 



212 THE EXCURSION. 

When he had crushed a plentiful estate 

By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 

In Britain's senate. Fruitless was the attempt : 

And while the uproar of that desperate strife 

Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 

The vanquished Whig, under a borrowed name, 

(For the mere sound and echo of his own 

Haunted him with sensations of disgust 

That he was glad to lose) slunk from the world 

To the deep shade of those untravelled Wilds ; 

In which the Scottish Laird had long possessed 

An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met, 

Two doughty champions ; flaming Jacobite 

And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 

That losses and vexations, less severe 

Than those which they had severally sustained, 

Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 

For this ungrateful cause ; no, — I have heard 

My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 

Of that small town encountering thus, they filled, 

Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife; 

Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church ; 

And vexed the market-place. But in the breasts 

Of these opponents gradually was wrought, 

With little change of general sentiment, 

Such leaning towards each other, that their days 

By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 

And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 

Those very bickerings made them love it more. 

A favorite boundary to their lengthened walks 
This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come 
Treading their path in sympathy and linked 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 213 

In social converse, or by some short space 

Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, 

One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 

Over both minds, when they awhile had marked 

The visible quiet of this holy ground, 

And breathed its soothing air ; — the spirit of hope 

And saintly magnanimity ; that — spurning 

The field of selfish difference and dispute, 

And every care which transitory things, 

Earth and the kingdoms of the earth, create — 

Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 

Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarred, 

Which else the Christian virtue might have claimed. 

There live who yet remember here to have seen 
Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
Of an old yew, their favorite resting-place. 
But as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
For public use preserved, and thus survive 
As their own private monument : for this 
Was the particular spot, in which they wished 
(And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 
That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was raised 
Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps 
That to the decorated pillar lead, 
A work of art more sumptuous than might seem 
To suit this place ; yet built in no proud scorn 
Of rustic homeliness ; they only aimed 
To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 



214 THE EXCURSION. 

Around the margin of the plate, whereon 

The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours, 

Winds an inscriptive legend." — At these words 

Thither we turned ; and gathered, as we read, 

The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched : 

' Time flies ; it is his melancholy task 

To bring, and bear aivay, delusive hopes. 

And re-produce the troubles he destroys. 

But, while his blindness thus is occupied, 

Discerning Mortal ! do thou serve the will 

Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace 

Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed /' 

" Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse," 
Exclaimed the Sceptic, " and the strain of thought 
Accords with nature's language ; — the soft voice 
Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
Upon our hearts, not wholly lost, I grant, 
Even upon mine, the more are we required 
To feel for those among our fellow-men, 
Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a sense 
Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
From peace like exiles on some barren rock, 
Their life's appointed prison ; not more free 
Than sentinels, between two armies, set, 
With nothing better, in the chill night air, 
Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say why 
That ancient story of Prometheus chained 
To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus ; 
The vulture, the inexhaustible repast 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 215 

Drawn from his vitals ? Say what meant the woes 
By Tantalus entailed upon his race, 
And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? 
Fictions in form, but in their substance truths, 
Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey 
For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
The crook into a sceptre ; give the pomp 
Of circumstance ; and here the tragic Muse 
Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, 
The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
The internal pangs, are ready; the dread strife 
Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny. " 

" Though," said the Priest in answer, " these be 
terms 
Which a divine philosophy rejects, 
We, whose established and unfailing trust 
Is in controlling Providence, admit 
That, through all stations, human life abounds 
With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left untried, 
How could the might, that lurks within her, then 
Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that ranks 
Among the first of Powers and Virtues — proved ? 
Our system is not fashioned to preclude 
That sympathy which you for others ask ; 
And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 
Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 
And strange disasters ; but I pass them by, 
Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hushed in peace. 



216 THE EXCURSION. 

— Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 

Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 

By the deformities of brutish vice : 

For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 

And a course outside of repulsive life 

And unaffecting manners might at once 

Be recognised by all — " " Ah ! do not think," 

The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaimed, 

" Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, 

(Gain shall I call it ? — gain of what ? — for whom ?) 

Should breathe a word tending to violate 

Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for 

In slight of that forbearance and reserve 

Which common human-heartedness inspires, 

And mortal ignorance and frailty claim, 

Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 

" True," said the Solitary, " be it far 
From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this 
Wisdom enjoins ; but if the thing we seek 
Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
How, from his lofty throne, the sun can fling 
Colors as bright on exhalations bred 
By weedy pool or pestilential swamp, 
As, by the rivulet sparkling where it runs, 
Or the pellucid lake." 

" Small risk," said I, 
" Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
Temptation here is none to exceed the truth ; 
No evidence appears that they who rest 
Within this ground, were covetous of praise, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 217 

Or of remembrance even, deserved, or not. 

Green is the Church-yard, beautiful and green, 

Ridge rising gently by the side of ridge, 

A heaving surface, almost wholly free 

From interruption of sepulchral stones, 

And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 

And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen trust 

The lingering gleam of their departed lives 

To oral record, and the silent heart ; 

Depositories faithful and more kind 

Than fondest epitaph : for, if those fail, 

What boots the sculptured tomb? And who can 

blame, 
Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
This mutual confidence ; if, from such source, 
The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 
And general humility in death ? 
Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
From disregard of time's destructive power, 
As only capable to prey on things 
Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 

Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 
Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
In courting notice ; and the ground all paved 
With commendations of departed worth ; 
Reading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives 
Of each domestic charity fulfilled, 
And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my part, 
Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, 
Among those fair recitals also range, 
Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 
And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
19 



218 THE EXCURSION. 






Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round 

With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, 

It was no momentary happiness 

To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks 

In envy or detraction is not heard ; 

Which malice may not enter ; where the traces 

Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 

Where love and pity tenderly unite 

With resignation ; and no jarring tone 

Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 

Of amity and gratitude." 

" Thus sanctioned," 
The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
My narratives to subjects that excite 
Feelings with these accordant ; love, esteem, 
And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 
A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
Retired and covert ; so that ye shall have 
Clear images before your gladdened eyes 
Of nature's unambitious underwood, 
And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when 
I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
Or fell, those only shall be singled out - 
Upon whose laps, or error, something more 
Than brotherly forgiveness may attend ; 
To such will we restrict our notice, else 
Better my tongue were mute. 

And yet there are, 
I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
For, strength to preserve and to support, 
And energy to conquer and repel — 
These elements of virtue, that declare 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 219 

The native grandeur of the human soul — 
Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
Truth every day exemplified, no less 
In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 
Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, 
Or mid the factious senate unappalled 
Whoe'er may sink, or rise — to sink again, 
As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 

There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, 
" A woman rests in peace ; surpassed by few 
In power of mind, and eloquent discourse. 
Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
Converse with heaven, nor yet depressed towards 

earth, 
But in projection carried, as she walked 
For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes ; 
Wrinkled and furrowed with habitual thought 
Was her broad forehead ; like the brow of one 
Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 
Of overpowering light. — While yet a child, 
She, 'mid the humble flowerets of the vale, 
Towered like the imperial thistle, not unfurnished 
With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
To be admired, than coveted and loved. 
Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen, 
Over her comrades ; else their simple sports, 
Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, 
Had crossed her only to be shunned with scorn. 
— Oh ! pang of sorrowful regret for those 
Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthralled, 



220 THE EXCURSION. 

That they have lived for harsher servitude, 
Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
Such doom was hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
Those brighter images by books imprest 
Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
That occupy their places, and, though oft 
Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimmed by haze, 
Are not to be extinguished, nor impaired. 

Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
Began in honor, gradually obtained 
Rule over her, and vexed her daily life ; 
An unremitting, avaricious thrift ; 
And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 
That held her spirit, in its own despite, 
Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 
Constrained forgiveness, and relenting vows, 
And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame concealed— 
To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 
— Her wedded days had opened with mishap, 
"Whence dire dependence. What could she perform 
To shake the burthen off ? Ah ! there was felt, 
Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve ; 
The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart 
Closed by degrees to charity ; heaven's blessing 
Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust 
In ceaseless pains — and strictest parsimony 
Which sternly hoarded all that could be spared, 
From each day's need, out of each day's least gain. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 221 

Thus all was re-established, and a pile 
Constructed, that sufficed for every end, 
Save the contentment of the builder's mind ; 
A mind by nature indisposed to aught 
So placid, so inactive, as content ; 
A mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
And cherishing the pang her heart deplored. 
Dread life of conflict ! which I oft compared 
To the agitation of a brook that runs 
Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost 
In silent pools, now in strong eddies chained ; 
But never to be charmed to gentleness : 
Its best attainment fits of such repose 
As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 

A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
How on her bed of death the Matron lay, 
To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
But fretted, vexed, and wrought upon, almost 
To anger, by the malady that griped 
Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb ? 
She prayed, she moaned; — her husband's sister 

watched 
Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 
And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
Was anguish to her ears ! ' And must she rule/ 
This was the death- doomed Woman heard to say 
In bitterness, ' and must she rule and reign, 
' Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 
* Tend what I tended, calling it her own !' 
Enough ! — I fear, too much. — One vernal evening, 
19* 



222 THE EXCURSION. 

While she was yet in prime of health and strength, 

I well remember, while I passed her door 

Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye 

Turned towards the planet Jupiter that hung 

Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 

Roused me, her voice ; it said, ' That glorious star 

' In its untroubled element will shine 

' As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 

* And safe from all our sorrows.' With a sigh 

She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustained 

By faith in glory that shall far transcend 

Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed 

To sight or mind. ISTor less than care divine 

Is divine mercy. She, who had rebelled, 

Was into meekness softened and subdued ; 

Did, after trials not in vain prolonged, 

With resignation sink into the grave ; 

And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 

And harsh unkindnesses are all* forgiven, 

Though in this Vale, remembered with deep awe." 



The Vicar paused ; and toward a seat advanced, 
A long stone seat, fixed in the Church-yard wall ; 
Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
Who seek the House of worship, while the bells 
Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
The last hath ceased its solitary knell. 
Beneath the shade we all sate down ; and their 
His office, uninvited, he resumed. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 223 

" As on a sunny bank, a tender lamb 
Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
Screened by its parent, so that little mound 
Lies guarded by its neighbor ; the small heap 
Speaks for itself ; an Infant there doth rest ; 
The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave. 
If mild discourse, and manners that conferred 
A natural dignity on humblest rank ; 
If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
That for a face not beautiful did more 
Than beauty for the fairest face can do ; 
And if religious tenderness of heart, 
Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
Shed when the clouds had gathered and distained 
The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
If these may make a hallowed spot of earth 
More holy in the sight of God or man ; 
Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood 
Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 

Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless man, 
Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, 
Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
Which it hath witnessed ; render back an echo 
Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, 
And on the very turf that roofs her own, 
The Mother oft was seen to stand, or kneel 
In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
Now she is not ; the swelling turf reports 
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
Of the path worn by mournful tread of her 



224 THE EXCURSION. 

Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved 
In virgin -fearlessness, with step that seemed 
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
Upon the mountains gemmed with morning dew, 
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
— Serious and thoughtful was her mind ; and yet, 
By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl 
Were such as might have quickened and inspired 
A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard 
Startling the golden hills. 

A wide-spread elm 
Stands in our valley, named The Joyful Tree ; 
From dateless usage which our peasants hold 
Of giving welcome to the first of May 
By dances round its trunk. — And if the sky 
Permit, like honors, dance and song, are paid 
To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars 
Or the clear moon. The queen of these gay sports, 
If not in beauty, yet in sprightly air, 
Was hapless Ellen. — No one touched the ground 
So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
Less gracefully were braided ; — but this praise, 
Methinks would better suit another place. 

She loved, and fondly deemed herself beloved. 
— The road is dim, the current unperceived, 
The weakness painful and most pitiful, 
By which a virtuous woman, in pure youth, 
May be delivered to distress and shame. 
Such fate was hers. — The last time Ellen danced, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 225 

Among her equals, round The Joyful Tree, 

She bore a secret burthen ; and full soon 

Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 

Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow, 

Alone, within her widowed Mother's house. 

It was the season of unfolding leaves, 

Of days advancing toward their utmost length, 

And small birds singing happily to mates 

Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power 

Winds pipe through fading woods ; but those blithe 

notes 
Strike the deserted to the heart ; I speak 
Of what I know, and what we feel within. 
— Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall ash-tree ; to whose topmost twig 
A thrush resorts, and annually chants, 
At morn and evening from that naked perch, 
While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. 
— ' Ah why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
' Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 
' And nature that is kind in woman's breast, 

* And reason that in man is wise and good, 

' And fear of him who is a righteous judge ; 
' Why do not these prevail for human life, 

* To keep two hearts together, that began 

' Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
' Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
1 To grant, or be received ; while that poor bird — 
' O come and hear him ! Thou who hast to me 
' Been faithless, hear him, though a lovely creature, 

* One of God's simplest children that yet know not 



226 THE EXCURSION. 

* The universal Parent, how he sinars 
' As if he wished the firmament of heaven 

' Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
' Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 

* The proclamation that he makes, how far 

' His darkness doth transcend our fickle light !' 

Such was the tender passage, not by me 
Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 
Which I perused, even as the words had been 
Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
Bedropped with tears. 'T will please you to be told 
That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
In lonely reading found a meek resource : 
How thankful for the warmth of summer days, 
When she could slip into the cottage-barn, 
And find a secret oratory there ; 
Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
By the last lingering help of the open sky 
Until dark night dismissed her to her bed ! 
Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
The unconquerable pang of despised love. 

A kindlier passion opened on her soul 
When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 
She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
Or dread was all that had been thought of, — joy 
Far livelier than bewildered traveller feels, 
Amid a perilous waste that all night long 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 227 

Hath harassed him toiling through fearful storm, 

When he beholds the first pale speck serene 

Of day-spring, in the gloomy east, revealed 

And greets it with thanksgiving. ' Till this hour,' 

Thus, in her Mother's hearing Ellen spake, 

' There was a stony region in my heart ; 

' But he, at whose command the parchdd rock 

* Was smitten, and poured forth a quenching stream, 
1 Hath softened that obduracy, and made 

' Unlooked-for gladness in the desert place, 

* To save the perishing ; and, henceforth, I breathe 
' The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake 

' My Infant ! and for that good Mother dear, 
' Who bore me ; and hath prayed for me in vain ; — 
1 Yet not in vain ; it shall not be in vain.' 
She spake, nor was the assurance unfulfilled ; 
And if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, 
They stayed not long. — The blameless Infant grew ; 
The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
They soon were proud of ; tended it and nursed ; 
A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 
Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands ; 
Or a choice shrub, which he, who passes by 
With vacant mind, not seldom may observe 
Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 
Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 

Through four months' space the Infant drew i 

food 
From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 
Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and 

crossed 
The fond affection. She no more could bear 



228 THE EXCURSION. 

By her offence to lay a twofold weight 

On a kind parent willing to forget 

Their slender means ; so, to that parent's care 

Trusting her child, she left their common home, 

And undertook with dutiful content 

A Foster-mother's office. 

'T is, perchance, 
Unknown to you, that in these simple vales 
The natural feeling of equality 
Is by domestic service unimpaired ; 
Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
From sense of degradation, not the less 
The ungentle mind can easily find means 
To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
Which hapless Ellen now was doomed to feel : 
For (blinded by an over-anxious dread 
Of such excitement and divided thought 
As with her office would but ill accord) 
The pair, whose infant she was bound to nurse, 
Forbad her all communion with her own : 
Week after week, the mandate they enforced. 
— So near ! yet not allowed, upon that sight 
To fix her eyes — alas ! 't was hard to bear ! 
But worse affliction must be borne — far worse ; 
For 't is Heaven's will — that, after a disease 
Begun and ended within three days' space, 
Her child should die ; as Ellen now exclaimed, 
Her own — deserted child ! — Once, only once, 
She saw it in that mortal malady ; 
And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain 
Permission to attend its obsequies. 
She reached the house, last of the funeral train ; 
And some one, as she entered, having chanced 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 229 

To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
* Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit 
Of anger never seen in her before, 
' Nay, you must wait my time !' and down she sate, 
And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 
Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
Until at length her soul was satisfied. 

You see the Infant's Grave ; and to this spot, 
The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, 
On whatsoever errand, urged her steps : 
Hither she came ; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene ! 
So call her ; for not only she bewailed 
A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness 
Her own transgression ; penitent sincere 
As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye ! 
— At length the parents of the foster-child, 
Noting that in despite of their commands 
She still renewed and could not but renew 
Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined. 
I failed not to remind them that they erred ; 
For holy Nature might not thus be crossed, 
Thus wronged in woman's breast : in vain I pleaded — «' 
But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped, 
And the flower drooped ; as every eye could see, 
It hung its head in mortal languishment, 
— Aided by this appearance, I at length 
Prevailed ; and, from those bonds released, she went 
Home to her mother's house. 



20 



230 THE EXCURSION. 

The Youth was fled ; 
The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ; 
And little would his presence, or proof given 
Of a relenting soul, have now availed ; 
For, like a shadow, he was passed away 
From Ellen's thoughts ; had perished to her mind 
For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love, 
Save only those which to their common shame, 
And to his moral being appertained : 
Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
A heavenly comfort ; there she recognised 
An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; 
There, and, as seemed, there only. 

She had built, 
Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 
In blindness all too near the river's edge ; 
That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
Had swept away ; and now her Spirit longed 
For its last flight to heaven's security. 
— The bodily frame wasted from day to day ; 
Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 
Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace 
And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, 
And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
Upon her own unworthiness. To me, 
As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 
Her heart she opened ; and no pains were spared 
To mitigate, as gently as I could, 
The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on earth ! 
In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
The ghastly face of cold decay put on 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 231 

A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine ! 

May I not mention — that, within those walls, 

In due observance of her pious wish, 

The congregation joined with me in prayer 

For her soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. 

— Much did she suffer : but, if any friend, 

Beholding her condition, at the sight 

Gave way to words of pity or complaint, 

She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and said, 

* He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 

' And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 

' Will mercifully take me to himself.' 

So, through the cloud of death, her spirit passed 

Into that pure and unknown world of love 

Where injury cannot come : — and here is laid 

The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 

The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
That each had listened with his inmost heart. 
For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong 
Or less benign than that which I had felt 
When seated near my venerable Friend, 
Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
The story that retraced the slow decline 
Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 
With the neglected house to which she clung. 
- — I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
Confessed the power of nature. — Pleased though sad, 
More pleased than sad, the grey -haired Wanderer sate; 
Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
Capacious and serene ; his blameless life, 
His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 



232 THE EXCURSION. 

Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
The pensive silence, saying : — - 

" Blest are they 
Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred. 
This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals 
With such, in their affliction. — Ellen's fate, 
Her tender spirit and her contrite heart, 
Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?" 

The Vicar answered, 
" In that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall, 
Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
In memory and for warning, and in sign 
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known, 
Of reconcilement after deep offence — 
There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies 
For the smooth glozings of the indulgent world ; 
Nor need the windings of his devious course 
Be here retraced ; enough that, by mishap 
And venial error, robbed of competence, 
And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind, 
He craved a substitute in troubled joy ; 
Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving 
Divine displeasure, broke the marriage- vow. 
That which he had been weak enough to do 
Was misery in remembrance ; he was stung, 
Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 
Of wife and children stung to agony. 
Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad ; 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 233 

Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the earth, 

Asked comfort of the open air, and found 

No quiet in the darkness of the night, 

No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 

His flocks he slighted : his paternal fields 

Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished 

To fly — but whither ! And this gracious Church, 

That wears a look so full of peace and hope 

And love, benignant mother of the vale, 

How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 

She was to him a sickness and reproach. 

Much to the last remained unknown : but this 

Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died ; 

Though pitied among men, absolved by God, 

He could not find forgiveness in himself; 

Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. 

Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 
And from her grave. — Behold — upon that ridge, 
That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, 
Carries into the centre of the vale 
Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where she dwelt ; 
And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 
(Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
Of many helpless Children. I begin 
With words that might be prelude to a tale 
Of sorrow and dejection; but I feel 
No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
See daily in that happy family. 
— Bright garland form they for the pensive brow 
Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, 
Those six fair Daughters, budding yet — not one, 
Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 
20* 



234 THE EXCURSION. 

Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 

That Father was, and filled with anxious fear, 

Now, by experience taught, he stands assured, 

That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 

Of what he seems to take ; or gives it back, 

Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer ; 

He gives it — the boon produce of a soil 

Which our endeavors have refused to till, 

And hope hath never watered. The Abode, 

Whose grateful owner can attest these truths, 

Even were the object nearer to our sight, 

Would seem in no distinction to surpass 

The rudest habitations. Ye might think 

That it had sprung self-raised from earth, or grown 

Out of the living rock, to be adorned 

By nature only ; but, if thither led, 

Ye would discover, then, a studious work 

Of many fancies, prompting many hands. 

Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines 
Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
A plant no longer wild ; the cultured rose 
There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
Roof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall, 
And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. 
These ornaments, that fade not with the year, 
A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights, 
Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him 
All that a boy could do, but with delight 
More keen and prouder daring; yet hath she, 
Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 235 

For her own flowers and favorite herbs, a space, 

By sacred charter, holden for her use. 

— These, and whatever else the garden bears 

Of fruit or flower, permission asked or not, 

I freely gather ; and my leisure draws 

A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 

Of bees around their range of sheltered hives 

Busy in that enclosure ; while the rill, 

That sparkling thrids the rocks, attunes his voice 

To the pure course of human life which there 

Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 

Of night is falling round my steps, then most 

This Dwelling charms me ; often I stop short, 

(Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight 

With prospect of the company within, 

Laid open through the blazing window : — there 

I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 

Spinning amain, as if to overtake 

The never-halting time ; or, in her turn, 

Teaching some Novice of the sisterhood 

That skill in this or other household work, 

Which, from her Father's honored hand, herself, 

While she was yet a little-one, had learned. 

Mild man ! he is not gay, but they are gay ; 

And the whole house seems filled with gaiety. 

— Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed- 

The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 

I turned, that ye in mind might witness where, 

A.nd how, her Spirit yet survives on earth !" 



THE EXCURSION 



BOOK SEVENTH 



THE CHURCH-YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS. 



THE CHURCH- YARD AMONG THE 
MOUNTAINS. 



CONTINUED. 



ARGUMENT. 

Impression of these Narratives upon the Author's mind. — Pastor invited 
to give account of certain Graves that lie apart. — Clergyman and his 
Family.— Fortunate influence of change of situation. — Activity in ex- 
treme old age. — Another Clergyman, a character of resolute Virtue. — 
Lamentations over mis-directed applause. — Instance of less exalted 
excellence in a deaf man. — Elevated character of a blind man. — Re- 
flections upon Blindness. — Interrupted by a Peasant who passes — his 
animal cheerfulness and careless vivacity. — He occasions a digression 
on the fall of beautiful and interesting Trees. — A female Infant's Grave. 
— Joy at her Birth. — Sorrow at her Departure. — A youthful Peasant — 
his patriotic enthusiasm and distinguished qualities — his untimely 
death. — Exultation of the Wanderer, as a patriot, in this Picture. — 
Solitary how affected. — Monument of a Knight. — Traditions concern- 
ing him. — Peroration of the Wanderer on the transitoriness of things 
and the revolutions of society. — Hints at his own past Calling. — 
Thanks the Pastor. 

"Y^lTHILE thus from theme to theme the Historian 

passed, 
The words he uttered, and the scene that lay- 
Before our eyes, awakened in my mind 
Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours ; 
When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 
(What time the splendor of the setting sun 
Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 
On Cader Idris, or huge Penmanmaur) 
A wandering Youth, I listened with delight 
239 



240 THE EXCURSION. 

To pastoral melody or warlike air, 

Drawn from the chords of the ancient British harp 

By some accomplished Master, while he sate 

Amid the quiet of the green recess, 

And there did inexhaustibly dispense 

An interchange of soft or solemn tunes. 

Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 

Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 

From youth or maiden, or some honored chief 

Of his compatriot villagers (that hung 

Around him, drinking in the impassioned notes 

Of the time-hallowed minstrelsy) required 

For their heart's ease or pleasure. Strains of power 

Were they, to seize and occupy the sense ; 

But to a higher mark than song can reach 

Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 

Which overflowed the soul was passed away, 

A consciousness remained that it had left, 

Deposited upon the silent shore 

Of memory, images and precious thoughts, 

That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed. 

" These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
Said I, " like surges heaving in the wind 
Along the surface of the mountain pool : 
Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold 
Five graves, and only five, that rise together 
Unsociably sequestered, and encroaching 
On the smooth play-ground of the village-school !' 

The Vicar answered, — " No disdainful pride 
In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
Of Strange or tragic accident, hath helped 



THE CHURCH -YARD, ETC, 241 

To place those hillocks in that lonely guise. 

— Once more look forth, and follow with your sight 

The length of road that from yon mountain's base 

Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line 

Is lost within a little tuft of trees ; 

Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 

The cultured fields ; and up the heathy waste, 

Mounts,, as you see, in mazes serpentine, 

Led towards an easy outlet of the vale. 

That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft, 

By which the road is hidden, also hides 

A cottage from our view ; though I discern 

(Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltered trees 

The smokeless chimney-top. — 

All unembowered 
And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
(For such in truth it is, and appertains 
To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) 
When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads 
By which our northern wilds could then be crossed 
And unto most of these secluded vales 
Was no access for wain, heavy or light. 
So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
With store of household goods, in panniers slung 
On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells, 
And on the back of more ignoble beast ; 
That, with like burthen of effects most prized 
Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
Young was I then, a school -boy of eight years ; 
But still, methinks, I see them as they passed 
In order, drawing toward their wished-for home. 
— Rocked by the motion of a trusty ass 
21 



242 THE EXCURSION. 

Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight, 

Each in his basket nodding drowsily ; 

Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers, 

Which told it was the pleasant month of June ; 

And, close* behind, the comely Matron rode, 

A woman of soft speech and gracious smile, 

And with a lady's mien. — From far they came, 

Even from Northumbrian hills ; yet theirs had been 

A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheered 

By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 

And freak put on, and arch word dropped — to swell 

The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 

That gathered round the slowly-moving train. 

— ' Whence do they come ? and what their errand 

charged ? 
' Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 
1 Who pitch their tents under the green- wood tree ? 
' Or Strollers are they, furnished to enact 
'Fair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 
'And, by that whiskered tabby's aid, set forth 
' The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
' When the next village hears the show announced 
' By blast of trumpet ?' Plenteous was the growth 
Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 
On many a staring countenance portrayed 
Of boor or burgher, as they marched along. 
And more than once their steadiness of face 
Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
To their inventive humor, by stern looks, 
And questions in authoritative tone, 
From some staid guardian of the public peace, 
Checking the sober steed on which he rode, 
In his suspicious wisdom ; oftener still, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 243 

By notice indirect, or blunt demand 

From traveller halting in his own despite, 

A simple curiosity to ease : 

Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheered 

Their grave migration, the boon pair would tell, 

With undiminished glee, in hoary age. 

A Priest he was by function ; but his course 
From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 
(The hour of life to which he then was brought) 
Had been irregular, I might say, wild ; 
By books unstudied, by his pastoral care 
Too little checked. An active, ardent mind ; 
A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 
To cheat the sadness of a rainy day ; 
Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 
A generous spirit, and a body strong 
To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl ; 
Had earned for him sure welcome, and the rights 
Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall 
Of country 'squire ; or at the statelier board 
Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 
Withdrawn, — to wile away the summer hours 
In condescension among rural guests. 

With these high comrades he had revelled long, 
Frolicking industriously, a simple Clerk 
By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
Till the heart sickened. So, each loftier aim 
Abandoning and all his showy friends, 
For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
He turned to this secluded chapelry ; 
That had been offered to his doubtful choice 



244 THE EXCURSION. 

By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare 

They found the cottage, their allotted home ; 

Naked without, and rude within ; a spot 

With which the Cure not long had been endowed: 

And far remote the chapel stood, — remote, 

And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable, 

Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening 

Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers 

Frequented, and beset with howling winds. 

Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang 

On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 

Or the necessity that fixed him here ; 

Apart from old temptations, and constrained 

To punctual labor in his sacred charge. 

See him a constant preacher to the poor ! 

And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 

Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will, 

The sick in body, or distrest in mind ; 

And by as salutary change, compelled 

To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 

With no engagement, in his thoughts, more proud 

Or splendid than his garden could afford, 

His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, 

Or the wild brooks ; from which he now returned 

Contented to partake the quiet meal 

Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate 

And three fair Children, plentifully fed 

Though simply, from their little household farm ; 

Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 

By nature yielded to his practised hand ; — 

To help the small but certain comings-in 

Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 

Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 

A charitable door. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 245 

So days and years 
Passed on ; — the inside of that rugged house 
Was trimmed and brightened by the Matron's care, 
And gradually enriched with things of price, 
Which might be lacked for use or ornament. 
What, though no soft and costly sofa there 
Insidiously stretched out its lazy length, 
And no vain mirror glittered upon the walls, 
Yet were the windows of the low abode 
By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
Repelled the storm and deadened its loud roar. 
There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds ; 
Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants, 
That creep along the ground with sinuous trail, 
Were nicely braided ; and composed a work 
Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace 
Lay at the threshold and the inner doors ; 
And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool 
But tinctured daintily with florid hues, 
For seemliness and warmth, on festal days, 
Covered the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone 
With which the parlor-floor, in simplest guise 
Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid. 

These pleasing works the Housewife's skill pro- 
duced : 
Meanwhile the unsedentary Master's hand 
Was busier with his task — to rid, to plant, 
To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
A thriving covert ! And when wishes, formed 
In youth, and sanctioned by the riper mind, 
Restored me to my native valley, here 
To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 
21* 



246 THE EXCUES10N. 

The once-bare cottage, on the mountain-side, 
Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast ; 
While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 
Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof. 
Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
To beautify with Nature's fairest growths 
This rustic tenement, had gently shed, 
Upon its Master's frame, a wintry grace ; 
The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 

But how could I say, gently ? for he still 
Retained a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
Few likings had he dropped, few pleasures lost ; 
Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
And still his harsher passions kept their hold — 
Anger and indignation. Still he loved 
The sound of titled names, and talked in glee 
Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends : 
Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
Uproused by recollected injury, railed - 
At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
In bitterness and with a threatening eye 
Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. 
— Those transports, with staid looks of pure good- 
will, 
And with soft smile, his consort would reprove. 
She, far behind him in the race of years, 
Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 
Far nearer, in the habit of her soul, 
To that still region whither all are bound. 
Him might we liken to the setting sun 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 247 

As seen not seldom on some gusty day, 
Struggling and bold, and shining from the west 
With an inconstant and unmellowed light ; 
She was a soft attendant cloud, that hung 
As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 
From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this ; 
I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
That now divides the pair, or rather say, 
That still unites them, praises, like heaven's dew, 
Without reserve descending upon both. 

Our very first in eminence of years 
This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale ! 
And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
Had never come, through space of forty years ; 
Sparing both old and young in that abode. 
Suddenly then they disappeared : not twice 
Had summer scorched the fields ; not twice had 
fallen 

On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow, 
Before the greedy visiting was closed, 
And the long-privileged house left empty — swept 
As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 
Had been among them ; all was gentle death, 
One after one, with intervals of peace. 
A happy consummation ! an accord 
Sweet, perfect, to be wished for ! save that here 
Was something which to mortal sense might sound 
Like harshness, — that the old grey-headed Sire, 
The oldest, he was taken last, survived 
When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 



248 THE EXCURSION. 

His Daughter, and that late and high-prized gift, 
His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 

' All gone, all vanished ! he deprived and bare, 
* How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
1 What will become of him ?' we said, and mused 
In sad conjectures — ' Shall we meet him now 
' Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks ? 
' Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
' Striving to entertain the lonly hours 
' With music ?' (for he had not ceased to touch 
The harp or viol which himself had framed, 
For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 
' What titles will he keep ? will he remain 
' Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, 
' A planter, and a rearer from the seed ? 
' A man of hope and forward-looking mind 
' Even to the last \* — Such was he, unsubdued. 
But Heaven was gracious ; yet a little while, 
And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
Of open projects, and his inward hoard 
Of unsunned griefs, too many and too keen, 
Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 
Softly and lightly from a passing cloud, 
Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
For noontide solace on the summer grass, 
The warm lap of his mother earth : and so, 
Their lenient term of separation past, 
That family (whose graves you there behold) 
By yet a higher privilege once more 
Were gathered to each other." 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 249 

Calm of mind 
And silence waited on these closing words ; 
Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear 
Lest in those passages of life were some 
That might have touched the sick heart of his Friend 
Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
Thus silence broke : — " Behold a thoughtless Man 
From vice and premature decay preserved 
By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
Transplanted ere too late. — The hermit, lodged 
Amid the untrodden desert, tells his beads, 
With each repeating its allotted prayer, 
And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 
Smooth task, with his compared, whose mind could 

string, 
Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
Of keen domestic anguish ; and beguile 
A solitude, unchosen, unprofessed ; 
Till gentlest death released him. 

Far from us 
Be the desire — too curiously to ask 
How much of this is but the blind result 
Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
And what to higher powers is justly due. 
But you, Sir, know that in a neighboring vale 
A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of nature lie 
Retired from notice, lost in attributes 
Of reason, honorably effaced by debts 
Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe, 
And conquests over her dominion gained, 



250 THE EXCURSION 

To which her forwardness must needs submit. 

In this one Man is shown a temperance — proof 

Against all trials ; industry severe 

And constant as the motion of the day ; 

Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 

That might be deemed forbidding, did not there 

All generous feelings nourish and rejoice ; 

Forbearance, charity in deed and thought, 

And resolution competent to take 

Out of the bosom of simplicity 

All that her holy customs recommend, 

And the best ages of the world prescribe. 

— Preaching, administering, in every work 

Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 

Of worldly intercourse between man and man, 

And in his humble dwelling, he appears 

A laborer, with moral virtue girt, 

With spiritual graces, like a glory, crowned." 

" Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, " for whom 
This portraiture is sketched. The great, the good, 
The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise, — 
These titles emperors and chiefs have borne, 
Honor assumed or given : and him, the Wonderful^ 
Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart, 
Deservedly have styled. — From his abode 
In a dependent chapelry that lies 
Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild, 
Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, 
And, having once espoused, would never quit ; 
Into its graveyard will ere long be borne 
That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone 
May cover him ; and by its help, perchance, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 251 

A century shall hear his name pronounced, 

With images attendant on the sound ; 

Then, shall the slowly-gathering twilight close 

In utter night ; and of his course remain 

No cognizable vestiges, no more 

Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words 

To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." 

The Pastor pressed by thoughts which round his 
theme 
Still linger'd, after a brief pause, resumed ; 
" Noise is there not enough in doleful war, 
But that the heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 
To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love — 
And, in requited passion, all too much 
Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear — 
But that the minstrel of the rural shade 
Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
The perturbation in the suffering breast, 
And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 
— Ah who (and with such rapture as befits 
The hallowed theme) will rise and celebrate 
The good man's purposes and deeds ; retrace 
His struggles, his discomfitures deplore, 
His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ; 
That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 
Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 
And like the soft infections of the heart, 
By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 
Hamlet, and town ; and piety survive 
Upon the lips of men in hall or bower ; 



252 THE EXCURSION. 

Not for reproof, but high and warm delight 

And grave encouragement, by song inspired ? 

— Yain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine 

The memory of the just survives in heaven : 

And, without sorrow, will the ground receive 

That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 

Of what lies here confines us to degrees 

In excellence less difficult to reach, 

And milder worth : nor need we travel far 

From those to whom our last regards were paid, 

For such example. 

Almost at the root 
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, 
Oft stretches toward me, like a long straight path 
Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies, 
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
From year to year in loneliness of soul ; 
And this deep mountain- valley was to him 
Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
With startling summons ; not for his delight 
The vernal cuckoo shouted : not for him 
Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds 
Were working the broad bosom of the lake • 
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
The agitated scene before his eye 
Was silent as a picture : evermore 
Were all things silent, whereso'er he moved. 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 253 

Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts 

Upheld, he duteously pursued the round 

Of rural labors ; the steep mountain-side 

Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog ; 

The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed ; 

And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 

Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 

All watchful and industrious as he was, 

He wrought not ; neither field nor flock he owned ; 

ISTo wish for wealth had place within his mind ; 

Nor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 

Though born a younger brother, need was none 
That from the floor of his paternal home 
He should depart, to plant himself anew 
And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
Of rights to him ; but he remained well pleased, 
By the pure bond of independent love, 
An inmate of a second family ; 
The fellow-laborer and friend of him 
To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
— Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 
That pressed upon his brother's house ; for books 
Were ready comrades whom he could not tire ; 
Of whose society the blameless Man 
Was never satiate. Their familiar voice, 
Even to old age, with unabated charm, 
Beguiled his leisure hours ; refreshed his thoughts ; 
Beyond its natural elevation raised 
His introverted spirit ; and bestowed 
Upon his life an outward dignity 
Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night, 
22 



254 THE EXCURSION. 

The stormy day, each had its own resource ; 

Song of the muses, sage historic tale, 

Science severe, or word of holy Writ 

Announcing immortality and joy 

To the assembled spirits of just men 

Made perfect, and from injury secure. 

— Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field, 

To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 

No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint ; 

And they, who were about him, did not fail 

In reverence, or in courtesy ; they prized 

His gentle manners : and his peaceful smiles, 

The gleams of his slow-varying countenance, 

Were met with answering sympathy and love. 

At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
A slow disease insensibly consumed 
The powers of nature ; and a few short steps 
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
(Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
— Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief ; 
Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude 
And now that monumental stone preserves 
His name, and unambitiously relates 
How long, and by what kindly outward aids, 
And in what pure contentedness of mind, 
The sad privation was by him endured. 
— And yon tall pine-tres, whose composing sound 
Was wasted on the good Man's living ear, 
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 



THE CHURCH- YARD, ETC. 255 

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze, 
Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave. 

Soul- cheering Light, most bountiful of things ! 
Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
Whose sacred influence, spread through earth and 

heaven, 
We all too thanklessly participate, 
Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. 
Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complained ; 
Ask of the channelled rivers if they held 
A safer, easier, more determined, course. 
What terror doth it strike into the mind 
To think of one, blind and alone, advancing 
Straight toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
But, timely warned, He would have stayed his steps> 
Protected, say enlightened, by his ear ; 
And on the very edge of vacancy 
Not more endangered than a man whose eye 
Beholds the gulf beneath. — No floweret blooms 
Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills, 
Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 
Its birth-place ; none whose figure did not live 
Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
Enriched with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. 
— Methinks I see him — how his eye-balls rolled, 
Beneath his ample brow, in darkness paired, — 
But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
Of the whole countenance alive with thought, 



256 THE EXCURSION 

Fancy, and understanding ; while the voice 
Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
With eloquence, and such authentic power, 
That, in his presense, humbler knowledge stood 
Abashed, and tender pity overawed." 

" A noble — and, to unreflecting minds, 
A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 
" Beings like these present ! But proof abounds 
Upon the earth that faculties, which seem 
Extinguished, do not, therefore, cease to be. 
And to the mind among her powers of sense 
This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
That the bereft their recompense may win ; 
But for remoter purposes of love 
And charity ; nor last nor least for this, 
That to the imagination may be given 
A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 
How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
Darkness is banished from the realms of death, 
By man's imperishable spirit, quelled. 
Unto the men who see not as we see 
Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
And know we not that from the blind have flowed 
The highest, holiest, raptures of the lyre ; 
And wisdom married to immortal verse ?" 

Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
Lying insensible to human praise, 
Love, or regret, — whose lineaments would next 
Have been portrayed, I guess not ; but it chanced 
That, near the quiet church-yard where we sate, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 257 

A team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope, 
Whose sharp descent confounded their array, 
Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 

" Here," said the Pastor, " do we muse, and mourn 
The waste of death ; and lo ! the giant oak 
Stretched on his bier — that massy timber wain ; 
Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 

He was a peasant of the lowest class : 
Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 
In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
Of winter cannot thin ; the fresh air lodged 
Within his cheek, as light within a cloud ; 
And he returned our greeting with a smile. 
When he had passed, the Solitary spake : 
" A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
And confident to-morrows ; with a face 
Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health, 
Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
His gestures note, — and hark ! his tones of voice 
Are all vivacious as his mien and looks." 

The Pastor answered. " You have read him well. 
Year after year is added to his store 
With silent increase : summers, winters — past, 
Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say, 
Ten summers and ten winters of a space 
That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 
The obligation of an anxious mind, 
22* 



258 THE EXCURSION. 

A pride in having, or a fear to lose ; 

Possessed like outskirts of some large domain, 

By any one more thought of than by him 

Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord ! 

Yet is the creature rational, endowed 

With foresight ; hears, too, every Sabbath day, 

The Christian promise with attentive ear ; 

Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 

Reject the incense offered up by him, 

Though of the kind which beasts and birds present 

In grove or pasture ; cheerfulness of soul, 

From trepidation and repining free. 

How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 

Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 

Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 

This qualified respect, the old Man's due, 
Is paid without reluctance ; but in truth," 
(Said the good Yicar with a fond half-smile), 
" I feel at times a motion of despite 
Towards one, whose bold contrivances and skill, 
As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 
One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed, 
In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 
Light birch, aloft upon the horizon's edge, 
A veil of glory for the ascending moon ; 
And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damped, 
And on whose forehead inaccessible 
The raven lodged in safety. — Many a ship 
Launched into Morecamb-bay, to him hath owed 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 259 

Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears 
The loftiest of her pendants ; He, from park 
Or forest, fetched the enormous axle-tree 
That whirls (how slow itself !) ten thousand spindles ' 
And the vast engine laboring in the mine, 
Content with meaner prowess, must have lacked 
The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 
If his undaunted enterprise had failed 
Among the mountain coves. 

Yon household fir, 
A guardian planted to fence off the blast, 
But towering high the roof above, as if 
Its humble destination were forgot — 
That sycamore, which annually holds 
Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 13 
A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
The fleece-encumbered flock — the Joyful Elm, 
Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May — ■ 
And the Lord's Oak — would plead their several rights 
In vain, if he were master of their fate ; 
His sentence to the axe would doom them all. 
But, green in age, and lusty as he is, 
And promising to keep his hold on earth 
Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
Than with the forest's more enduring growth, 
His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world, 
This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall. 

Now from the living pass we once again : 
From Age," the Priest continued, " turn your 
thoughts ; 



260 THE EXCURSION. 

From Age, that often unlamented drops 

And marks with daisied hillock, three spans long '. 

— Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 

Of Gold-rill side ; and, when the hope had ceased 

Of other progeny, a Daughter then 

Was given, the crowning bounty of the whole ; 

And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 

Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 

With which by nature every mother's soul 

Is stricken in the moment when her throes 

Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 

Which tells her that a living child is born ; 

And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest, 

That the dread storm is weathered by them both. 

The Father — him at this unlooked-for gift 
A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, 
Day after day the gladness is diffused 
To all that come, almost to all that pass ; 
Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
Health and good wishes to his new-born girl ; 
From cups replenished by his joyous hand. 
— Those seven fair brothers variously were moved 
Each by the thoughts best suited to his years : 
But most of all, and with most thankful mind 
The hoary grandsire felt himself enriched ; 
A happiness that ebbed not, but remained 
To fill the total measure of his soul ! 
■ — From the low tenement, his own abode, 
Whither, as to a little private cell, 
He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 



THE CHURCH -YARD, ETC. 261 

To spend the sabbath of old age in pea«ce, 
Once every day he duteously repaired 
To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
For in that female infant's name he heard 
The silent name of his departed wife ; 
Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that name ; 
Full blest he was, * Another Margaret Green/ 
Oft did he say, * was come to Gold-rill side.' 

Oh ! pang unthought of, as the precious boon 
Itself had been unlooked-for ; oh ! dire stroke 
Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
— Just as the Child could totter on the floor, 
And, by some friendly finger's help unstayed, 
Range round the garden walk, while she perchance 
Was catching at some novelty of spring, 
Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell 
Drawn by the sunshine — at that hopeful season 
The winds of March, smiting insidiously, 
Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
Viewless obstruction ; whence, all unforewarned, 
The household lost their pride and souls' delight. 
— But time hath power to soften all regrets, 
And prayer and thought can bring to worst distress 
Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 
Fail not to spring from either Parent's eye 
Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own, 
Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
In what may now be called a peaceful bed. 

On a bright day — so calm and bright it seemed 
To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair — 



262 THE EXCUES10N. 

These mountains echoed to an unknown sound; 
A volley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
Let down into the hollow of that grave, 
Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 
Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods, 
That they may knit together, and therewith 
Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness ! 
Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved, 
To me as precious as my own ! — Green herbs 
May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
Reminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
Thy image disappear ! 

The Mountain-ash 
No eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
Decked with autumnal berries, that outshine 
Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have marked, 
By a brook-side or solitary tarn, 
How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
Are brightened round her. In his native vale 
Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
By his ingenious beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, 
By all the graces with which nature's hand 
Had lavishly arrayed him. As old bards 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 263 

Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 

Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form : 

Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade 

Discovered in their own despite to sense 

Of mortals (if such fables without blame 

May find chance-mention on this sacred ground) 

So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 

And through the impediment of rural cares, 

In him revealed a scholar's genius shone ; 

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 

In him the spirit of a hero walked 

Our unpretending valley. — How the quoit 

Whizzed from the Stripling's arm ! If touched by 

him, 
The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 
Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve, 
Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
The indefatigable fox had learned 
To dread his perseverance in the chase. 
With admiration would he lift his eyes 
To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 
Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 
To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead, 
The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe, 
The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves, 
And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes, 
Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 
Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim, 
And lived by his forbearance. 

From the coast 
Of France a boastful Tyrant hurled his threats ; 
Our Country marked the preparation vast 



264 THE EXCURSION 

Of hostile forces ; and she called — with voice 

That filled her plains, that reached her utmost shores, 

And in remotest vales was heard — to arms ! 

— Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 

The shepherd's grey to martial scarlet changed, 

That flashed uncouthly through the woods and fields. 

Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire, 

And graced with shining weapons, weekly marched, 

From this lone valley, to a central spot 

Where, in assemblage with the flower and choice 

Of the surrounding district, they might learn 

The rudiments of war ; ten — hardy, strong, 

And valiant ; but young Oswald, like a chief 

And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 

From their shy solitude, to face the world, 

With a gay confidence and seemly pride ; 

Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 

Like Youths released from labor, and yet bound 

To most laborious service, though to them 

A festival of unincumbered ease ; 

The inner spirit keeping holiday, 

Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 

Oft have I marked him, at some leisure hour, 
Stretched on the grass, or seated in the shade, 
Among his fellows, while an ample map 
Before their eyes lay carefully outspread, 
From which the gallant teacher would discourse, 
Now pointing this way and now that. — ' Here flows/ 
Thus would he say, * The Rhine, that famous stream ! 
1 Eastward, the Danube toward this inland sea, 
' A mightier river, winds from realm to realm ; 
1 And, like a serpent, shows his glittering back 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 265 

' Bespotted — with innumerable isles : 

■ Here reigns the Russian, there the Turk ; observe 

' His capital city !' Thence, along a tract 

Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears, 

His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 

Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged ; 

Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields 

On which the sons of mighty Germany 

Were taught a base submission. — ' Here behold 

' A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land, 

' Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods, 

* And mountains white with everlasting snow !' 

— And, surely, he, that spake with kindling brow, 

Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best 

Of that young peasantry, who, in our days, 

Have fought and perished for Helvetia's rights — 

Ah, not in vain ! — or those who, in old time, 

For work of happier issue, to the side 

Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 

When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 

Descended from Judean heights, to march 

With righteous Joshua ; nor appeared in arms 

When grove was felled, and altar was cast down, 

And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed, 

And strong in hatred of idolatry." 

The Pastor, even as if by these last words 
Raised from his seat within the chosen shade, 
Moved toward the grave ; — instinctively his steps 
We followed ; and my voice with joy exclaimed : 
" Power to the Oppressors of the world is given, 
A might of which they dream not. Oh ! the curse, 
To be the awakener of divinest thoughts, 
23 



266 THE EXCURSION. 

Father and founder of exalted deeds ; 
And, to whole nations bound in servile straits, 
The liberal donor of capacities 
More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
Deserve the least return of human thanks; 
Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
With pity mixed, astonishment with scorn !" 

When this involuntary strain had ceased, 
The Pastor said : " So Providence is served ; 
The forked weapon of the skies can send 
Illumination into deep, dark holds, 
Which the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast 
Pity away, soon shall ye quake with fear / 
For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, 
Europe, through all her habitable bounds, 
Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet 
Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore, 
By horror of their impious rites, preserved ; 
Are still permitted to extend their pride, 
Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
Darkening the sun. 

But less impatient thoughts, 
And love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
This hallowed grave demands, where rests in peace 
V humble champion of the better cause ; 
A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he asked 
No higher name ; in whom our country showed, 
As in a favorite son, most beautiful. 
In spite of vice, and misery, and disease, 






THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 267 

Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
England, the ancient and the free, appeared 
In him to stand before my swimming eyes, 
Unconquerably virtuous and secure. 
— No more of this, lest I offend his dust : 
Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 

One day — a summer's day of annual pomp 
And solemn chase — from morn to sultry noon 
His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
The red-deer driven along its native heights 
With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
Returned with sinews weakened and relaxed, 
This generous Youth, too negligent of self, 
Plunged— 'mid a gay and busy throng convened 
To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock— 
Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire 
Seized him, that self-same night ; and through the 

space 
Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrenched, 
Till nature rested from her work in death. 
To him, thus snatched away, his comrades paid 
A soldier's honors. At his funeral hour 
Bright was the sun, the sky a cloudless blue — 
A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 
And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, 
From some commanding eminence had looked 
Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 
A glittering spectacle ; but every face 
Was pallid : seldom hath that eye been moist 
With tears, that wept not then ; nor were the few, 
Who from their dwellings came not forth to join 
In this sad service, less disturbed than we. 



268 THE EXCURSION. 

They started at the tributary peal 
Of instantaneous thunder, which announced, 
Through the still air, the closing of the Grave , 
And distant mountains echoed with a sound 
Of lamentation, never heard before !" 

The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend, 
Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived 
The prolongation of some still response, 
Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, 
The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
Its rights and virtues — by that Deity 
Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
With patriotic confidence and joy, 
And, at the last of those memorial words, 
The pining Solitary turned aside ; 
Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
To his worn cheek ; or with uneasy shame 
For those cold humors of habitual spleen 
That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man 
Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged 
To self-abuse a not ineloquent tongue. 
— Right toward the sacred Edifice his steps 
Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
Intent upon a monumental stone, 
Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall, 
Or rather seemed to have grown into the side 
Of the rude pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees, 
Where nature works in wild and craggy spots, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC, 269 

Are seen incorporate with the living rock — 
To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
Exclaimed — 

" The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
That task would foil ;" then, letting fall his voice 
While he advanced, thus spake : " Tradition tells 
That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired, 
And fixed his home in this sequestered vale. 
'T is left untold if here he first drew breath, 
Or as a stranger reached this deep recess, 
Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought 
I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 
To Scotland's court in service of his Queen, 
Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen 
With transient observation ; and thence caught 
An image fair, which, brightening in his soul 
When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
Languished beneath accumulated years, 
Had power to draw him from the world, resolved 
To make that paradise his chosen home 
To which his peaceful fancy oft had turned. 

Vague thoughts are these ; but, if belief may rest 
Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
The Knight arrived, with spear and shield, and borne 
Upon a Charger gorgeously bedecked 
With broidered housings. And the lofty Steed — 
His sole companion, and his faithful friend, 
Whom he, in gratitude, let loose to range 
23* 



270 THE EXCURSION. 

In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 

Of admiration and delightful awe, 

By those untravelled Dalesmen. With less pride, 

Yet free from touch of envious discontent, 

They saw a mansion at his bidding rise, 

Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 

Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt ; 

And, in that mansion, children of his own, 

Or kindred, gathered round him. As a tree 

That falls and disappears, the house is gone ; 

And, through improvidence or want of love 

For ancient worth and honorable things, 

The spear and shield are vanished, which the Knight 

Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch 

Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 

Of that foundation in domestic care 

Raised by his hands. And now no trace is left 

Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone, 

Faithless memorial ! and his family name 

Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 

From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 

These, and the name and title at full length, — 

Sir 8Ufretr Ertijittff, with appropriate words 

Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 

Or posy, girding round the several fronts 

Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, 

That in the steeple hang, his pious gift." 

" So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
The grey-haired Wanderer pensively exclaimed, 
" All that this world is proud of. From their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 271 

Princes, and Emperors, and the crowns and palms 

Of all the mighty, withered and consumed ! 13 

Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 

Long to protect her own. The man himself 

Departs ; and soon is spent the line of those 

Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 

In heart or soul, in station or pursuit, 

Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks, 

Fraternities and orders — heaping high 

New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 

And placing trust in privilege confirmed 

And re-confirmed — are scoffed at with a smile 

Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 

Of Desolation, aimed : to slow decline 

These yield, and these to sudden overthrow : 

Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 

Expire ; and nature's pleasant robe of green, 

Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 

Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame 

Of social nature changes evermore 

Her organs and her members with decay 

Restless, and restless generation, powers 

And functions dying and produced at need, — 

And by this law the mighty whole subsists : 

With an ascent and progress in the main ; 

Yet, oh ! how disproportioned to the hopes 

And expectations of self -flattering minds ! 

The courteous Knight, whose bones are here in- 
terred, 
Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
For strife and ferment in the minds of men ; 
Whence alteration in the forms of things, 



272 THE EXCURSION. 

Various and vast. A memorable age ! 

Which did to him assign a pensive lot — 

To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds 

That, on the steady breeze of honor, sailed 

In long procession calm and beautiful. 

He who had seen his own bright order fade, 

And its devotion gradually decline, 

(While war, relinquishing the lance and shield 

Her temper changed, and bowed to other laws) 

Had also witnessed, in his morn of life, 

That violent commotion, which o'erthrew, 

In town and city and sequestered glen, 

Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof, 

And old religious house — pile after pile ; 

And shook their tenants out into the fields, 

Like wild beasts without home ! Their hour was 

come; 
But why no softening thought of gratitude, 
No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt ? 
Benevolence is mild ; nor borrows help, 
Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force 
Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
But Human -kind rejoices in the might 
Of mutability ; and airy hopes, 
Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
Those meditations of the soul that feed 
The retrospective virtues. Festive songs 
Break from the maddened nations at the sight 
Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 

Even," said the Wanderer, " as that courteous 
Knight, 



THE CHURCH-YARD, ETC. 273 

Bound by his vow to labor for redress 

Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 

By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 

(If I may venture of myself to speak, 

Trusting that not incongruously I blend 

Low things with lofty) I too shall be doomed 

To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 

Of the poor calling which my youth embraced 

With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; 

— Thoughts crowd upon me — and 't were seemlier 

now 
To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks 
For the pathetic records which his voice 
Hath here delivered ; words of heartfelt truth, 
Tending to patience when affliction strikes ; 
To hope and love ; to confident repose 
In God ; and reverence for the dust of Man." 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK EI GHTH. 



THE PARSONAGE. 



THE PARSONAGE. 



ARGUMENT. 



Pastor's apology and apprehensions that he might have detained hia 

Auditors too long, the Pastor's invitation to his ho'ise. — Solitary 

disinclined to comply — rallies the Wanderer — and playfully draws a 
comparison between his itinerant profession and that of the Knight- 
errant — which leads to Wanderer's giving an account of changes in 
the Country from the manufacturing spirit.— Favorable effects.— The 
other side of the picture, and chiefly as it has affected the humbler 
classes. — Wanderer asserts the hollowness of all national grandeur if 
unsupported by moral worth. — Physical science unable to support 
itself. — Lamentations over an excess of manufacturing industry among 
the humbler Classes of Society. — Picture of a Child employed in a 
Cotton-mill. — Ignorance and degradation of Children among the agri- 
cultural Population reviewed. — Conversation broken off by a renewed 
Invitation from the Pastor. — Path leading to his House. — Its appear- 
ance described.— His Daughter.— His Wife.— His Son (a Boy) enters 
with his Companion. — Their happpy appearance. — The Wanderer 
how affected by the sight of them. 

rPHE pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale 

To those acknowledgments subscribed his own, 
With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
Failed not to notice, inly pleased, said : — 
" If ye, by whom invited I began 
These narratives of calm and humble life, 
Be satisfied, 'tis well, — the end is gained ; 
And, in return for sympathy bestowed 
And patient listening, thanks accept from me. 
— Life, death, eternity ! momentous themes 
24 211 



278 THE EXCURSION. 

Are they — and might demand a seraph's tongue, 
Were they not equal to their own support ; 
And therefore no incompetence of mine 
Could do them wrong. The universal forms 
Of human nature, in a spot like this, 
Present themselves at once to ail men's view : 
Ye wished for act and circumstance, that make 
The individual known and understood ; 
And such as my best judgment could select 
From what the place afforded, have been given ; 
Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal 
To his might well be likened, who unlocks 
A cabinet stored with gems and pictures — draws 
His treasures forth, soliciting regard 
To this, and this, as worthier than the last, 
Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased 
More than the exhibitor himself, becomes 
Weary and faint, and longs to be released. 
— But let us hence ! my dwelling is in sight, 
And there — " 

At this the Solitary shrunk 
With backward will ; but, wanting not .address 
That inward motion to disguise, he said 
To his Compatriot, smiling as he spake ; 
— " The peaceable remains of this good Knight 
Would be disturbed, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 
If consciousness could reach him where he lies 
That one, albeit of these degenerate times, 
Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought, 
The fine vocation of the sword and lance 
With the gross aims and body-bending toil 



THE PARSONAGE. 279 

Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth 
Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. 

Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates 
Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, 
Exiles and wanderers — and the like are these ; 
Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, 
Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. 
— What though no higher recompense be sought 
Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
Full oft procured, yet may they claim respect, 
Among the intelligent, for what this course 
Enables them to be and to perform. 
Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, 
While solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects 
By the division of her inward self 
For grateful converse : and to these poor men 
Nature (I but repeat your favorite boast) 
Is bountiful — go wheresoe'er they may ; 
Kind Nature's various wealth is all their own. 
Versed in the characters of men ; and bound, 
By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
Such have been, and still are in their degree, 
Examples efficacious to refine 
Rude intercourse ; apt agents to expel, 
By importation of unlooked-for arts, 
Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
Raising, through just gradation, savage life 
To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
— Within their moving magazines is lodged 
Power that comes forth to quicken and exalt 



280 THE EXCURSION. 

Affections seated in the mother's breast, 
And in the lover's fancy ; and to feed 
The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. 
—By these Itinerants, as experienced men, 
Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
With gentle language ; in remotest wilds, 
Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring ; 
Could the proud quest of chivalry do more ?" 

" Happy," rejoined the Wanderer, " they who gain 
A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
But, if to these Wayfarers once pertained 
Aught of romantic interest, it is gone. 
Their purer service, in this realm at least, 
Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 
Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 
To most strange issues. I have lived to mark 
A new and unforeseen creation rise 
From out the labors of a peaceful Land 
Wie ding her potent enginery to frame 
And to produce, with appetite as keen 
As that of war, which rests not night or day, 
Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 
Might one like me now visit many a tract 
Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
Wished-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came — 
Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill ; 
Or straggling burgh, of ancient* charter proud, 
And dignified by battlements and towers 
Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow 
Of a green hill or bank of rugged stream. 
The footh-path faintly marked, the horse-track wild, 






THE PARSONAGE. 281 

And formidable length of plashy lane, 

(Prized avenues ere others had been shaped 

Or easier links connecting place with place) 

Have vanished — swallowed up by stately roads 

Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 

Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has lent 

Her waters, Air her breezes ; and the sail 

Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 

Glistening along the low and woody dale ; 

Or, in its progress, on the lofty side, 

Of some bare hill, with wonder kenned from far. 14 

Meanwhile, at social Industry's command 
How quick, how vast an increase ! From the germ 
Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 
Hiding the face of earth for leagues — and there, 
Where not a habitation stood before, 
Abodes of men irregularly massed 
Like trees in forests, — spread through spacious tracts, 
O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
Of vapor glittering in the morning sun. 
And, wheresoe'er the traveller turns his steps, 
He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
Or disappearing ; triumph that proclaims 
How much the mild Directress of the plough 
Owes to alliance with these new-born arts ! 
— Hence is the wide sea peopled, — hence the shores 
Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
Freighted from every climate of the world 
With the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum 
Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, 
24* 



282 THE EXCURSION. 

Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 

That anim it'.ng spectacle of sails 

That, through her inland regions, to and fro 

Pass with the respirations of the tide, 

Perpetual, multitudinous ! Finally, 

Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice 

Of thunder, daunting those who would approach 

With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 

Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 

Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 

And yet, happy Pastor of a flock 
Faithfully watched, and, by that loving care 
And Heaven's good providence, preserved from 

taint ! 
With you I grieve, when on the darker side 
Of this great change I look ; and there behold 
Such outrage done to nature as compels 
The indignant power to justify herself; 
Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
For England's bane. — When soothing darkness 

spreads 
O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus expressed 
His recollections, " and the punctual stars, 
While all things else are gathering to their homes, 
Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
Glitter — but undisturbing, undisturbed ; 
As if their silent company were charged 
With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord ; 
Then, in full many a region, once like this 
The assured domain of calm simplicity 
And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 



THE PARSONAGE. 283 

Prepared for never-resting Labor's eyes 

Breaks from a many- windowed fabric huge ; 

And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, 

Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll 

That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest — • 

A local summons to unceasing toil ! 

Disgorged are now the ministers of day ; 

And, as they issue from the illumined pile, 

A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door — 

And in the courts— and where the rumbling stream, 

That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, 

Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 

Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, 

Mother and little children, boys and girls, 

Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 

Within this temple, where is offered up 

To Gain, the master idol of the realm, 

Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 

Our ancestors, within the still domain 

Of vast cathedral or conventual church, 

Their vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 

On the dim altar burned continually, 

In token that the House was evermore 

Watching to God. Religious men were they ; 

Nor would their reasons, tutored to aspire 

Above this transitory world, allow 

That there should pass a moment of the year, 

When in their land the Almighty's service ceased. 

Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
Which we, a generation self-extolled, 
As zealously perform ! I cannot share 
His proud complacency : — yet do I exult, 



284 THE EXCURSION. 

Casting reserve away, exult to see 

An intellectual mastery exercised 

O'er the blind elements ; a purpose given, 

A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 

Imparted — to brute matter. I rejoice, 

Measuring the force of those gigantic powers 

That, by the thinking mind, have been compelled 

To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 

For with the sense of admiration blends 

The animating hope that time may come 

When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might 

Of this dominion over nature gained, 

Men of all lands shall exercise the same 

In due proportion to their country's need ; 

Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, 

All praise, all safety, and all happiness, 

Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 

Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves, 

Palmyra, central in the desert, fell ; 

And the Arts died by which they had been raised. 

— Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 

Upon the grave of vanished Syracuse, 

And feeling the Sage shall make report 

How insecure, how baseless in itself, 

Is the Philosophy whose sway depends 

On mere material instruments ; — how weak 

Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped 

By virtue. — He, sighing with pensive grief, 

Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 

That not the slender privilege is theirs 

To save themselves from blank for^etfulness ! w 



THE PARSONAGE. 285 

When from the Wanderer's lips these words had 
fallen, 
I said, "And, did in truth those vaunted Arts 
Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
Sadness and keen regret, we who revere, 
And would preserve as things above all price, 
The old domestic morals of the land, 
Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
That dignified and cheered a low estate ? 
Oh ! where is now the character of peace, 
Sobriety, and order, and chaste love, 
And honest dealing, and untainted speech, 
And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer ; 
That made the very thought of country-life 
A thought of refuge, for a 1 mind detained 
Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd ? 
Where now the beauty of the Sabbath kept 
With conscientious reverence, as a day 
By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
Holy and blest ? and where the winning grace 
Of all the lighter ornaments attached 
To time and season, as the year rolled round ?" 

" Fled !" was the Wanderer's passionate response, 
" Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
In a few fortunate retreats like this ; 
Which I behold with trembling, when I think 
What lamentable change, a year — a month- 
May bring ; that brook converting as it runs 
Into an ¥ instrument of deadly bane 
For those, who, yet untempted to forsake 
The simple occupations of their sires, 
Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 



286 THE EXCURSION. 

With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss 

(Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 

How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart ! 

Lo ! in such neighborhood, from morn to eve, 

The habitations empty ! or perchance 

The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 

To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; 

No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, 

Or in despatch of each day's little growth 

Of household occupation ; no nice arts 

Of needle-work ; no bustle at the fire, 

Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 

Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 

Nothing to praise, to teach or to command ! 

The Father, if perchance he still retain 
His old employments, goes to field or wood, 
No longer led or followed by the Sons ; 
Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight ; 
Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth ; 
'Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 
Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is lost 
Economists will tell you that the State 
Thrives by the forfeiture — unfeeling thought, 
And false as monstrous ! Can the mother thrive 
By the destruction of her innocent sons 
In whom a premature necessity 
Blocks out the forms of nature, preconsumes 
The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
The infant Being in itself, and makes 
Its very spring a season of decay ! 
The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
Whether a pining discontent survive, 



THE PARSONAGE, 287 

And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 
The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 
Of her close tasks, and long captivity. 

Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
A native Briton to these inward chains, 
Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep ; 
Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed ! 
He is a slave to whom release comes not, 
And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns, 
Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 
Among the clouds, and roars through the ancient 

woods ; 
Or when the sun is shining in the east, 
Quiet and calm. Behold him — in the school 
Of his attainments ? no ; but with the air 
Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch. 
His raiment, whitened o'er with cotton-flakes 
Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 
Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale, 
His respiration quick and audible ; 
And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush 
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form, 
Is that the countenance, and such the port, 
Of no mean Being ? One who should be clothed 
With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
Sublime from present purity and joy ! 
The limbs increase ; but liberty of mind 
Is gone for ever ; and this organic frame, 
So joyful in its motions, is become 
Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead ; 



288 THE EXCURSION. 

And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 
Through the whole body, with a languid will 
Performs its functions ; rarely competent 
To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 
The gentle visitations of the sun, 
Or lapse of liquid element — by hand, 
Or foot, or lip, in summer's warmth — perceived. 
— Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 
On such foundations ?" 

" Hope is none for him I" 
The pale Recluse indignantly exclaimed, 
" And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
Yet be it asked, in justice to our age, 
If there were not, before those arts appeared, 
These structures rose, commingling old and young, 
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
If there were not, then, in our far-famed Isle, 
Multitudes, whdfrom infancy had breathed 
Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large ; 
Yet walked beneath the sun, in human shape, 
As abject, as degraded ? At this day, 
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair 
Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear ; 
Or wearing, (shall we say ?) in that white growth 
An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
Or fierceness, wreathed around their sunburnt brows, 
By savage Nature ? Shrivelled are their lips ; 
Naked, and colored like the soil, the feet 
On which they stand ; as if thereby they drew 
Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots, 



THE PARSONAGE. 289 

From earth, the common mother of us all. 
Figure and mien, complexion and attire, 
Are leagued to strike dismay ; but outstretched hand 
And whining voice, denote them supplicants 
For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found ; 
And with their parents occupy the skirts, 
Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and reared 
At the mine's mouth, under impending rocks ; 
Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave ; 
Or where their ancestors erected huts, 
For the convenience of unlawful gain, 
In forest purlieus ; and the like are bred, 
All England through, with nooks and slips of ground 
Purloined, in times less jealous than our own, 
From the green margin of the public way, 
A residence afford them, mid the bloom 
And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest watch, 
Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
Then, followed closely with the cloud of dust, 
An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. 
— Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin, 
And, on the freight of merry passengers 
Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 
And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 
Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is lost, 
Or bounty tires — and every face, that smiled 
Encouragement, hath ceased to look that way. 
— But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe, 
25 



290 THE EXCURSION. 

These, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 
Are profitless to others. 

Turn we then 
To Britons born and bred within the pale 
Of civil polity, and early trained 
To earn, by wholesome labor in the field, 
The bread they eat. A sample should I give 
Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich 
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
' Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes 
Imparts new gladness to the morning air !' 
Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse, 
Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints ; 
Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, 
Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
The wooden stools for everlasting use, 
Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy stare — 
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange — 
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
A look or motion of intelligence 
From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row, 
Or puzzling through a primer, line by line, 
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
— What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand 
What penetrating power of sun or breeze, 
Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice ? 
This torpor is no pitiable work 
Of modern ingenuity ; no town 



THE PARSONAGE. 291 

Nor crowded city can be taxed with aught 
Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, 
To which (and who can tell where or how soon ?) 
He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce : 
His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe, 
The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
In air high-towering with a boorish pomp, 
The sceptre of his sway ; his country's name, 
Her equal rights, her churches and her schools — 
What have they done for him ? And, let me ask, 
For tens of thousands uninformed as he ? 
In brief, what liberty of mind is here ?" 

This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, 
To whom the appeal couched in its closing words 
"Was pointedly addressed ; and to the thoughts 
That in ascent or opposition rose 
Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give 
Prompt utterance ; but the Vicar interposed 
With invitation urgently renewed. 
— We followed, taking as he led, a path 
Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall, 
Whose flexile boughs low bending with a weight 
Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots 
That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 
Howl from the north, what kindly warmth, methought, 
Is here — how grateful this impervious screen ! 
— Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot 
On rural business passing to and fro 
Was the commodious walk : a careful hand 
Had marked the line, and strewn its surface o'er 
With pure cerulean gravel, from -the heights 
Fetched by a neighboring brook. — Across the vale 



292 THE EXCURSION. 

The stately fence accompanied our steps ; 
And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite, 
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain, 
The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer. 

Like image of solemnity, conjoined 
With feminine allurement soft and fair, 
The mansion's self displayed ; — a reverend pile 
With bold projections and recesses deep ; 
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
Fronting the noontide sun. We paused to admire 
The pillared porch, elaborately embossed ; 
The low wide windows with their mullions old ; 
The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone ; 
And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose 
By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned : 
Profusion bright ! and every flower assuming 
A more than natural vividness of hue, 
From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
Of yew, in which survive some traces, here 
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 
Blending their diverse foliage with the green 
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasped 
The huge round chimneys, harbor of delight 
For wren and redbreast, — where they sit and sing 
Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
Nor must I leave untouched (the picture else 
Were incomplete) a relique of old times 



THE PARSONAGE. 293 

Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
Of nicest workmanship ; that once had held 
The sculptured image of some patron-saint, 
Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
On all who entered those religious doors. 

But lo ! where from the Rocky garden-mount 
Crowned by its antique summer-house — descends, 
Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
For she hath recognized her honored friend, 
The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt kiss 
The gladsome Child bestows at his request ; 
And, up the flowery lawn as we advance, 
Hangs on the old Man with a happy look, 
And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
— We enter — by the Lady of the place 
Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port : 
A lofty stature, undepressed by time, 
Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
The finer lineaments of form and face ; 
To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 
And wisdom loves.— But when a stately ship 
Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast 
On homeward voyage, what — if wind and wave, 
And hardship undergone in various climes, 
Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
With which she left her haven — not for this, 
Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze 
Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
Brightness and touching beauty of her own, 
That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appeared 
This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
25* 



294 THE EXCURSION. 

Of unexpected pleasure. — Soon the board 
Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 

Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
From trivial themes to general argument 
Passing, as accident or fancy led, 
Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose 
And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve 
Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
Resumed the manners of his happier days ; 
And in the various conversation bore 
A willing, nay, at times, a forward part ; 
Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
Had learned the art of pleasing, and had now 
Occasion given him to display his skill, 
Upon the steadfast 'vantage-ground of truth. 
He gazed with admiration unsuppressed, 
Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
In softened perspective ; and more than once 
Praised the consummate harmony serene 
Of gravity and elegance, diffused 
Around the mansion and its whole domain ; 
Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
And female care. — " A blessed lot is yours !" 
The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh 
Breathed over them ; but suddenly the door 
Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
Appeared, confusion checking their delight. 
— Not brothers they in feature or attire, 
But fond companions, so I guessed, in field, 
And by the river's margin — whence they come, 



THE PARSONAGE. "295 

Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 

One bears a willow-pannier on his back, 

The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives 

More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be 

To that fair girl who from the garden-mount 

Bounded : — triumphant entry this for him ! 

Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, 

On whose capacious surface see outspread 

Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted trouts ; 

Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees 

Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 

Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone 

With its rich freight ; their number he proclaims ; 

Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragged ; 

And where the very monarch of the brook, 

After long struggle, had escaped at last — 

Stealing alternately at them and us 

(As doth his comrade too) a look of pride ; 

And, verily, the silent creatures made 

A splendid sight, together thus exposed ; 

Dead — but not sullied or deformed by Death, 

That seemed to pity what he could not spare. 

But 0, the animation in the mien 
Of those two boys ! yea in the very words 
With which the young narrator was inspired, 
When, as our questions led, he told at large 
Of that day's prowess ! Him might I compare, 
His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence, 
To a bold brook that splits for better speed, 
And at the self-same moment, works its way 
Through many channels, ever and anon 
Parted and re-united : his compeer 



296 THE EXCURSION. 

To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight 

As beautiful — as grateful to the mind. 

— But to what object shall the lovely Girl 

Be likened ? She whose countenance and air 

Unite the graceful qualities of both, 

Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 

My grey-haired Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 
Glistened with tenderness ; his mind, I knew, 
Was full : and had, I doubted not, returned, 
Upon this impulse, to the theme — ere while 
Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
Withdrew, on summons to their well-earned meal ; 
And He — to whom all tongues resigned their rights 
With willingness, to whom the general ear 
Listened with readier patience than to strain 
Of music, lute or harp, a long delight 
That ceased not when his voice had ceased — as One 
Who from truth's central point serenely views 
The compass of his argument — began 
Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 



THE EXCURSION. 



BOOK NINTH. 

DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER. 

AND AN 

EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 



DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN 
EVENING VISIT TO THE LAKE. 



ARGUMENT . 



Wanderer asserts that an active principle peryades the Universe, its 
noblest seat the human soul. — How lively this principle is in Child- 
hood.— Hence the delight in old Age of looking back upon Child- 
hood. — The dignity, powers, and privileges of Age asserted. — These 
not to be looked for generally but under a just government. — Right of a 
human Creature to be exempt from being considered as a mere In- 
strument. — The condition of multitudes deplored. — Former conversa- 
tion recurred to, and the Wanderer's opinions set in a clearer light.— 
Truth placed within reach of the humblest. — Equality. — Happy state 
of the two boys again adverted to. — Earnest wish expressed for a Sys- 
tem of National Education established universally by Government. 
— Glorious effects of this foretold. — Walk to the Lake. — Grand spec- 
tacle from the side of a hill.— Address of the Priest to the Supreme Be- 
ing — in the course of which he contrasts with ancient Barbarism the 
present appearance of the scene before him. — The change ascribed to 
Christianity. — Apostrophe to his flock, living and dead. — Gratitude to 
the Almighty. — Return over the Lake. — Parting with the Solitary. — 
Under what circumstances. 

" rPO every Form of being is assigned," 

Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
"An active Principle :■ — howe'er removed 
From sense and observation, it subsists 
In all things, in all natures ; in the stars 
Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 
In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
The moving waters, and the invisible air. 
299 



300 THE EXCURSION. 

Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 

Beyond itself, communicating good, 

A simple blessing, or with evil mixed ; 

Spirit that knows no insulated spot, 

No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 

It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 

This is the freedom of the universe ; 

Unfolded still the more, more visible, 

The more we know ; and yet is reverenced least, 

And least respected in the human Mind, 

Its most apparent home. The food of hope 

Is meditated action ; robbed of this, 

Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 

We perish also ; for we live by hope 

And by desire ; we see by the glad light 

And breathe the sweet air of futurity ; 

And so we live, or else we have no life. 

To-morrow — nay perchance this very hour 

(For every moment hath its own to-morrow !) 

Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 

With present triumph, will be sure to find 

A field before them freshened with the dew 

Of other expectations ; — in which course 

Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys 

A glad impulse ; and so moves the man 

'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — 

Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 

Do we revert so fondly to the walks 

Of childhood — but that there the Soul discerns 

The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 

Of her own native vigor ; thence can hear 

Reverberations ; and a choral song, 

Commingling with the incense that ascends, 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 301 

Undaunted, towards the imperishable heavens, 
From her own lonely altar ? 

Do not think 
That good and wise ever will be allowed, 
Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
That Man descends into the Yale of years ; 
Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 
And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
As of a final Eminence ; though bare 
In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
On which 't is not impossible to sit 
In awful sovereignty ; a place of power, 
A throne that may be likened unto his, 
Who, in some placid day of summer, looks 
Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 
High peaks that bound the vale where now we are. 
Faint, and diminished to the gazing eye, 
Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, 
With all the shapes over their surface spread : 
But, while the gross and visible frame of things 
Relinquishes its hold upon the sense, 
Yea almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
All unsubstantialized, — how loud the voice 
Of waters, with invigorated peal 
From the full river in the vale below, 
Ascending ! For on that superior height 
Who sits, is disin cumbered from the press 
Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
To breathe in solitude, above the host 
Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves 
26 



302 THE EXCURSION. 

Many and idle, visits not his ear : 

This he is freed from, and from thousand notes 

(Not less unceasing, not le'ss vain than these,) 

By which the finer passages of sense 

Are occupied ; and the Soul that would incline 

To listen, is prevented or deterred. 

And may it not be hoped, that, placed by age 
In like removal, tranquil though severe, 
We are not so removed for utter loss ; 
But for some favor, suited to our need ? 
What more than that the severing should confer 
Fresh power to commune with the invisible world, 
And hear the mighty stream of tendency 
Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 
To run the giddy round of vain delight, 
Or fret and labor on the Plain below. 

But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
And termination of his mortal course ; 
Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
To whom kind Nature, therefore, may afford 
Proof of the sacred love she bears for all ; 
Whose birthright Reason, therefore, may ensure. 
For me, consulting what I feel within 
In times when most existence with herself 
Is satisfied, I cannot but believe, 
That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 303 

And Reason's sway predominates ; even so far, 
Country, society, and time itself, 
That saps the individual's bodily frame, 
And lays the generations low in dust, 
Do, by the almighty Ruler's grace, partake 
Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
And cherishing with ever-constant love, 
That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is turned 
Out of her course, wherever man is made 
An offering, or a sacrifice, a tool 
Or implement, a passive thing employed 
As a brute mean, without acknowledgment 
Of common right or interest in the end ; 
Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
Say, what can follow for a rational soul 
Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, 
And strength in evil ? Hence an after-call 
For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 
And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 
Entrust the future. — Not for these sad issues 
Was Man created ; but to obey the law 
Of life, and hope, and action. And 't is known 
That when we stand upon our native soil, 
Unelbowed by such objects as oppress 
Our active powers, those powers themselves become 
Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
They sweep distemper from the busy day, 
And make the chalice of the big round year 
Run o'er with gladness ; whence the Being moves 
In beauty through the world ; and all who see 
Bless him, rejoicing in his neighborhood." 
" Then," said, the Solitary, " by what force 



304 THE EXCURSION. 

Of language shall a feeling heart express 

Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 

We look for health from seeds that have been sown 

In sickness, and for increase in a power 

That works but by extinction ? On themselves 

They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 

To know what they must do ; their wisdom is 

To look into the eyes of others, thence 

To be instructed what they must avoid : 

Or rather, let us say, how least observed, 

How with most quiet and most silent death, 

With the least taint and injury to the air 

The oppressor breathes, their human form divine, 

And their immortal soul, may waste away." 

The Sage rejoined, " I thank you — you have spared 
My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
A wide compassion which with you I share. 
When, heretofore, I placed before your sight 
A Little-one, subjected to the arts 
Of modern ingenuity, and made 
The senseless member of a vast machine, 
Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel ; 
Think not, that, pitying him, I could forget 
The rustic Boy, who walks the fields, untaught ; 
The slave of ignorance, and oft of want, 
And miserable hunger. Much, too much, 
Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
We both have witnessed, lot which I myself 
Shared, though in mild and merciful degree : 
Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed, 
Through which I struggled, not without distress 
And sometimes injury, like a lamb enthralled 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 305 

'Mid thorns and brambles ; or a bird that breaks 
Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind, 
Though with her plumes impaired. If they whose 

souls 
Should open while they range the richer fields 
Of merry England, are obstructed less 
By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
Kor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 
That tens of thousands at this day exist 
Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
Of those who once were vassals of her soil, 
Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 
Which it sustained ? But no one takes delight 
In this oppression ; none are proud of it ; 
It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore ; 
A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 
Were turned to evils that are new and chosen, 
A bondage lurking under shape of good, — 
Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
But all too fondly followed and too far ; — 
To victims, which the merciful can see 
N or think that they are victims — turned to wrongs, 
By women, who have children of their own, 
Beheld without compassion, yea with praise ! 
I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
The healthier, the securer, we become ; 
Delusion which a moment may destroy ! 
Lastly, I mourned for those whom I had seen 
Corrupted and cast down, on favored ground, 
Where circumstance and nature had combined 
To shelter innocence, and cherish love ; 
26* 



306 THE EXCURSION. 

Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived, 
Possessed of health, and strength, and peace of mind ; 
Thus would have lived, or never have been born. 

Alas ! what differs more than man from man ! 
And whence that difference ? whence but from him- 
self? 
For see the universal Race endowed 
With the same upright form ! — The sun is fixed, 
And the infinite magnificence ftf heaven 
Fixed, within reach of every human eye ; 
The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears ; 
The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense, 
Even as an object is sublime or fair, 
That object is laid open to the view 
Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
Is salutary, or an influence sweet, 
Are each and all enabled to perceive 
That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
Reason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears ; 
Imagination, freedom in the will ; 
Conscience to guide and check ; and death to be 
Foretasted, immortality conceived 
By all, — a blissful immortality, 
To them whose holiness on earth shall make 
The Spirit capable of heaven, assured. 
Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be 

deemed 
The failure, if the Almighty, to this point 
Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
The excellence of moral qualities 






DISCOURSE, ETC: 307 

From common understanding ; leaving truth 

And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark ; 

Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 

Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects, 

And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not; 

The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; 

The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless, 

Are scattered at the feet of Man — like flowers. 

The generous inclination, the just rule, 

Kind wishes, and goocl actions, and pure thoughts — 

No mystery is here ! Here is no boon 

For high — yet not for low ; for proudly graced — 

Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 

To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth 

As from the haughtiest palace. He, whose soul 

Ponders this true equality, may walk 

The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 

Yet, in that meditation, will he find 

Motive to sadder grief, as we have found ; 

Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown, 

And for the injustice grieving, that hath made 

So wide a difference between man and man. 

Then let us rather fix our gladdened thoughts 
Upon the brighter scene. How blest that pair 
Of blooming Boys (which we beheld even now) 
Blest in their several and their common lot ! 
A few short hours of each returning day 
The thriving prisoners of their village-school : 
And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 
Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy ; 
To breathe and to be happy, run and shout 
Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss ; 



308 THE EXCURSION. 

For every genial power of heaven and earth, 

Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 

Obsequiously doth take upon herself 

To labor for them ; bringing each in turn 

The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, 

Beauty, or strength ! Such privilege is theirs, 

Granted alike in the outset of their course 

To both ; and, if that partnership must cease, 

I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 

" Much as I glory in that child *)f yours, 

Repine not for his cottage-comrade, whom 

Belike no higher destiny awaits 

Than the old hereditary wish fulfilled ; 

The wish for liberty to live — content 

With what Heaven grants, and die — in peace of mind, 

Within the bosom of his native vale. 

At least, whatever fate the noon of life 

Reserves for either, sure it is that both 

Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn ; 

Whether regarded as a jocund time, 

That in itself may terminate, or lead 

In course of nature to a sober eve. 

Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 

They will allow that justice has in them 

Been shown, alike to body and to mind." 

He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
Some weighty matter ; then, with fervent voice 
And an impassioned majesty, exclaimed — 

"0 for the coming of that glorious time 
When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
A.nd best protection, this imperial Realm, 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 3( 

/ 

While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 

An obligation, on her part, to teach 

Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 

Binding herself by statute to secure 

For all the children whom her soil maintains 

The rudiments of letters, and inform 

The mind with moral and religious truth, 

Both understood and practised, — so that none, 

However destitute, be left to droop 

By timely culture unsustained ; or run 

Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 

To drudge, through a weary life, without the help 

Of intellectual implements and tools ; 

A savage horde among the civilized, 

A servile band among the lordly free ! 15 

This sacred right the lisping babe proclaims 

To be inherent in him, by heaven's will, 

For the protection of his innocence ; 

And the rude boy — who, having overpast 

The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled, 

Yet mutinously knits his angry brow, 

And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent, 

Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 

To impious use — by process indirect 

Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 

— This sacred right is fruitlessly announced, 

This universal plea in vain addressed, 

To eyes and ears of parents who themselves 

Did, in the time of their necessity, 

Urge it in vain ; and therefore, like a prayer 

That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven, 

It mounts to reach the State's parental ear ; 

Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 



310 THE EXCURSION. 

And be not most unfeelingly devoid 

Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 

The unquestionable good — which, England, safe 

From interference of external force, 

May grant at leisure ; without risk incurred 

That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 

Others shall e'er be able to undo. 

Look ! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliffs 
To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, 
Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds ; 
Laws overturned ; and territory split, 
Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 
And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. 
Meantime the sovereignty of these fair Isles 
Remains entire and indivisible : 
And, if that ignorance were removed, which breeds 
Within the compass of their several shores 
Dark discontent, or loud commotion, each 
Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. 
— The discipline of slavery is unknown 
Among us, — hence the more do we require 
The discipline of virtue ; order else 
Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
Thus, duties rising out of good possest 
And prudent caution needful to avert 
Impending evil, equally require 
That the whole people should be taught and trained. 
So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 



DISCOURSE, ETC 311 

Their place ; and genuine piety descend, 
Like an inheritance, from age to age. 

With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 
Of numbers crowded on their native soil, 
To the prevention of all healthful growth 
Through mutual injury ! Rather in the law 
Of increase, and the mandate from above 
Rejoice ! — and ye have special cause for joy. 
For, as the element of air affords 
An easy passage to the industrious bees 
Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth 
For those ordained to take their sounding flight 
From the thronged hive, and settle where they list 
In fresh abodes — their labor to renew ; 
So the wide waters, open to the power, 
The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
Her swarms, and in succession send them forth ; 
Bound to establish new communities 
On every shore whose aspect favors hope 
Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 
And perseverance their deserved reward. 

Yes/' he continued, kindling as he spake, 
" Change wide, and deep* and silently performed, 
This Land shall witness ; and as days roll on, 
Earth's universal frame shall feel the effect ; 
Even till the smallest habitable rock, 
Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
Of humanized society ; and bloom 
With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their fragrance, 
A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 



312 THE EXCURSION. 

From culture, unexclusively bestowed 

On Albion's noble Race in freedom born, 

Expect these mighty issues : from the pains 

And faithful care of unambitious schools 

Instructing simple childhood's ready ear : 

Thence look for these magnificent results ! 

— Vast the circumference of hope — and ye 

Are at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 

Ah ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall Wisdom's voice 

From out the bosom of these troubled times 

Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 

And shall the venerable halls ye fill 

Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 

Trust not to partial care a general good ; 

Transfer not to futurity a work 

Of urgent need. — Your Country must complete 

Her glorious destiny. Begin even now, 

Now, when oppression, like the Egyptian plague 

Of darkness, stretched o'er guilty Europe makes 

The brightness more conspicuous that invests 

The happy Island where ye think and act ; 

Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit, 

Show to the wretched nations for what end 

The powers of civil polity were given." 

Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, 
The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
" Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
The silvery lake is streaked with placid blue ; 
As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
How temptingly the landscape shines ! The air 



DISCOURSE. ETC. 313 

Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 

To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moored 

Under a sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 

We rose together : all were pleased ; but most 

The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy. 

Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 

She vanished — eager to impart the scheme 

To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 

— Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 

And earnest preparation. — Forth we went, 

And d6wn the vale along the streamlet's edge 

Pursued our way, a broken company, 

Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 

Thus having reached a bridge, that overarched 

The hasty rivulet where it lay becalmed 

In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 

A two-fold image ; on a grassy bank 

A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 

Another and the same ! Most beautiful, 

On the green turf, with his imperial front 

Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 

The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 

Beneath him, showed his shadowy counterpart. 

Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, 

And each seemed centre of his own fair world : 

Antipodes unconscious of each other, 

Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 

Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 

" Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
And yet a breath can do it !" 
27 






314 THE EXCURSION. 

These few words 
The Lady whispered, while we stood and gazed 
Gathered together, all in still delight, 
Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
In like low voice to my particular ear, 
" I love to hear that eloquent old Man 
Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
On human life from infancy to age. 
How pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
His mind gives back the various forms of things, 
Caught in their fairest, happiest, attitude ! 
While he is speaking, I have power to see 
Even as he sees ; but when his voice hath ceased, 
Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
That combinations so serene and bright 
Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
Whose highest beauty, beautiful as it is, 
Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, 
Seems but a fleeting sunbeam's gift, whose peace 
The sufferance only of a breath of air !" 



More had she said — but sportive shouts were heard 
Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys, 
Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
Down the green field came tripping after us. 
With caution we embarked ; and now the pail 
For prouder service were addrest ; but each, 
Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
Dropped the light oar his eager hand had seized. 
Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, 
Their place I took — and for a grateful office 
Pregnant with recollections of the time 
When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere 






DISCOURSE, ETC. 315 

A Youth, I practised this delightful art ; 

Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew 

Of joyous comrades. Soon as the reedy marge 

Was cleared, I dipped, with arms accordant, oars 

Free from obstruction ; and the boat advanced 

Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk, 

That, disentangled from the shady boughs 

Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 

With correspondent wings the abyss of air. 

— " Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky isle 

With birch-trees fringed ; my hand shall guide the 

helm, 
While thitherward we shape our course ; or while 
We seek that other, on the western shore ; 
Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 
Supporting gracefully a massy dome 
Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." 

" Turn where* we may," said I, " we cannot err 
In this delicious region." — Cultured slopes, 
Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves, 
And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods, 
Surrounded us ; and, as we held our way 
Along the level of the glassy flood, 
They ceased not to surround us ; change of place, 
From kindred features diversely combined, 
Producing change of beauty ever new. 
— Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 
Of living nature, cannot be portrayed 
By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill; 
But is the property of him alone 
Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 



316 THE EXCURSION. 

And in his mind recorded it with love ! 

Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 

Youchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 

Of trivial occupations well devised, 

And unsought pleasures springing up by chance ; 

As if some friendly Genius had ordained 

That, as the day thus far had been enriched 

By acquisition of sincere delight 

The same should be continued to its close. 

One spirit animating old and young, 
A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
Of-the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed — and there, 
Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
A choice repast — served by our young companions 
With rival earnestness and kindred glee. 
Launched from our hands the smooth stone skimmed 

the lake ; 
With shouts we raised the echoes ; stiller sounds 
The lovely Girl supplied — a simple song, 
Whose low tones reached not to the distant rocks 
To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
Into our hearts ; and charmed the peaceful flood. 
Rapaciously we gathered flowery spoils 
From land and water ; lilies of each hue — 
Golden and white, that float upon the waves, 
And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy plant, 
(Her flowers were shed), the lily of the vale, 
That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
Her pensive beauty ; from the breeze her sweets. 

Such product, and such pastime, did the place 
And season yield ; but, as we re-embarked, 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 317 

Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 

Of that wild spot, the Soliiary said 

In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 

" The fire, that burned so brightly to our wish, 

Where is it now ? — Deserted on the beach — 

Dying, or dead ! "Nor shall the fanning breeze 

Revive its ashes. What care we for this, 

Whose ends are gained ? Behold an emblem here 

Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 

And, in this unpremeditated slight 

Of that which is no longer needed, see 

The common course of human gratitude !" 

This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
Our pinnace moves ; then, coasting creek and bay, 
Glades we behold, and into thickets peep, 
Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
And thus the bark, meandering with the shore, 
Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
Of jutting rock invited us to land. 

Alert to follow as the Pastor led, 
We clomb a green hill's side ; and, as we clomb, 
The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
Fair prospect, intercepted less and less, 
O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
Of the smooth lake, in compass seen : — far off, 
And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church- tower, 
In majesty presiding over fields 
And habitations seemingly preserved 
27* 



318 THE EXCURSION. 

From all intrusion of the restless world 
By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 

Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 
And choice of moss- clad stones, whereon we couched 
Or sate reclined ; admiring quietly 
The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
Not seldom over anxious to make known 
His own discoveries ; or to favorite points 
Directing notice, merely from a wish 
To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
That rapturous moment never shall I forget 
When these particular interests were effaced 
From every mind ! — Already had the sun, 
Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
Attained his western bound ; but rays of light — 
Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
Retired behind the mountain tops or veiled 
By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 
Of the blue firmament — aloft, and wide ; 
And multitudes, of little floating clouds, 
Through their ethereal texture pierced — ere we, 
"Who saw, of change were conscious — had become 
Vivid as fire ; clouds separately poised, — 
Innumerable multitude of forms 
Scattered through half the circle of the sky ; 
And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
That which the heavens displayed, the liquid deep 
Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 319 

While from the grassy mountain's open side 
We gazed, in silence hushed, with eyes intent 
On the refulgent spectacle, diffused 
Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
The Priest in holy transport thus exclaimed : 

" Eternal Spirit ! universal God ! 
Power inaccessible to human thought, 
Save by degrees and steps which thou hast deigned 
To furnish ; for this effluence of thyself, 
To the infirmity of mortal sense 
Vouchsafed ; this local transitory type 
Of thy paternal splendors, and the pomp 
Of those who fill thy courts in highest heaven, 
The radiant Cherubim ; — accept the thanks 
Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened, 
Presume to offer; we, who — from the breast 
Of the frail earth, permitted to behold 
The faint reflections only of thy face — 
Are yet exalted, and in soul adore ! 
Such as they are who in thy presence stand 
Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
Imperishable majesty streamed forth 
From thy empyreal throne, the elect of earth 
Shall be — divested at the appointed hour 
Of all dishonor, cleansed from mortal stain. 
Accomplish, then, their number ; and conclude 
Time's weary course ! Or if, by thy decree, 
The consummation that will come by stealth 
Be yet far distant, let thy Word prevail, 
Oh ! let thy Word prevail, to take away 
The sting of human nature. Spread the law, 
As it is written in thy holy book, 



320 THE EXCURSION. 

Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
The high behest, and every heart obey ; 
Both for the love of purity, and hope 
Which it affords, to such as do thy will 
And persevere in good, that they shall rise. 
To have a nearer view of thee, in heaven. 
— Father of good ! this prayer in bounty grant, 
In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, 
And cruel wars expire. The way is marked, 
The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
These tidings, and in Christian temples meet 
The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
Proffered to all, while yet on earth detained. 

So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few, 
Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask, 
Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife, 
Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 
And the kind never perish ? Is the hope 
Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
A peaceable dominion, wide as earth, 
And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 
When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
Studious of mutual benefit ; and he, 
Whom morn awakens, among dews and flowers 
Of every clime, to till the lonely field, 
Be happy in himself ? — The law of faith 



DISCOURSE, ETC. 321 

Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, 
Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve ? 
Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart ! 
And with that help the wonder shall be seen 
Fulfilled, the hope accomplished ; and thy praise 
Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 

Once," and with mild demeanor, as he spake, 
On us the venerable Pastor turned 
His beaming eye that had been raised to Heaven, 
" Once, while the Name, Jehovah, was a sound 
Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
Unheard, the savage nations bowed the head 
To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds ; 
Gods which themselves had fashioned, to promote 
111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
Then, in the bosom of yon mountain- cove, 
To those inventions of corrupted man 
Mysterious rites were solemnized ; and there — 
Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods — 
Of those terrific Idols some received 
Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 
Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 
Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 
Of human victims, offered up to appease 
Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
Had visionary faculties to see 
The thing that hath been as the thing that is, 
Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 
Bedimmed with smoke, in wreaths voluminous, 
Flung from the body of devouring fires, 
To Taranis erected on the heights 



322 THE EXC U RSI ON. 

By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 

Exultingly, in view of open day 

And full assemblage of a barbarous host ; 

Or to Andates, female Power ! who gave 

(For so they fancied) glorious victory. 

— A few rude monuments of mountain-stone 

Survive ; all else is swept away. — How bright 

The appearances of things ! From such, how changed 

The existing worship ; and with those compared, 

The worshippers how innocent and blest ! 

So wide the difference, a willing mind 

Might almost think, at this affecting hour, 

That paradise, the lost abode of man, 

Was raised again : and to a happy few 

In its original beauty, here restored. 

Whence but from thee, the true and only God, 
And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
Were left, the other gained. — O ye, who come 
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
Called to such office by the peaceful sound 
Of Sabbath bells ; and ye, who sleep in earth 
All cares forgotten, round its hallowed walls ! 
For you, in presence of this little band 
Gathered together on the green hill-side, 
Your Pastor is emboldened to prefer 
Vocal thanksgivings to the eternal King ; 
Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands, have 

made 
Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
And in good works ; and him, who is endowed 






DISCOURSE, ETC. 323 

With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth 
Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
Conscious of that abundant favor showered 
On you, the children of my humble care, 
And this dear land, our country, while on earth 
We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 
These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 
These fertile fields, that recompense your pains ; 
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top ; 
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
Or hushed ; the roaring waters, and the still — 
They see the offering of my lifted hands, 
They hear my lips present their sacrifice, 
They know if I be silent, morn or even : 
For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 
Will find a vent ; and thought is praise to him, 
Audible praise, to thee, omniscient Mind, 
From whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow ! 

This vesper-service closed, without delay, 
From that exalted station to the plain 
Descending, we pursued our homeward course. 
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
Of those celestial splendors ; grey the vault — 
Pure, cloudless, ether ; and the star of eve 
Was wanting ; but inferior lights appeared 
Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 
Her mooring- place ; where, to the sheltering tree, 
Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow, 



324 THE EXCURSION. 

With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we paced 

The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 

Was reached, the Solitary checked his steps ; 

Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestowed 

A farewell salutation ; and, the like 

Receiving, took the slender path that leads 

To the one cottage in the lonely dell : 

But turned not without welcome promise made 

That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 

Of yet another summer's day, not loth 

To wander with us through the fertile vales, 

And o'er the mountain-wastes. " Another sun," 

Said he, " shall shine upon us, ere we part ; 

Another sun, and peradventure more ; 

If time, with free consent, be yours to give, 

And season favors." 

To enfeebled Power, 
From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
What renovation had been brought ; and what 
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
Dejected, and habitually disposed 
To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
And whether aught, of tendency as good 
And pure, from further intercourse ensued ; 
This — if delightful hopes, as heretofore, 
Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past — 
My future labors may not leave untold. 



NOTES. 



Note I.— Page 13. 

'Descend, prophetic Spirit, that inspirest 
The human soul,'' SfC. 

* Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic Soul 

, Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.' 

Shakspeare's Sonnets. 

Note 2.— P. 28. 
* much did he see of Men.'' 

At the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of artificial society, I 
have ever heen ready to pay homage to the aristocracy of nature ; under 
a conviction that vigorous human-heartedness is the constituent principle 
of true taste. It may still, however, be satisfactory to have prose testi- 
mony how far a Character, employed for purposes of imagination, is 
founded upon general fact. I, therefore, subjoin an extract from an 
author who had opportunities of being well acquainted with a class of 
men, from whom my own personal knowledge emboldened me to draw 
this portrait. 

' We learn from Caesar and other Roman Writers, that the travelling 
merchants who frequented Gaul and other barbarous countries, either 
newly conquered by the Roman arms, or bordering on the Roman con- 
quest, were ever the first to make the inhabitants of those countries 
familiarly acquainted with the Roman modes of life, and to inspire them 
with an inclination to follow the Roman fashions, and to enjoy Roman 
conveniences. In North America, travelling merchants from the Settle- 
ments have done and continue to do much more toward civilizing the 
Indian natives, than all the missionaries, papist or protestant, who have 
ever been sent among them. 

It is farther to be observed, for the credit of this most useful class of 
men, that they commonly contribute, by their personal manners, no less 
than by the sale of their wares, to the refinement of the people among 
whom they travel. Their dealings form them to great quickness of wit 
and acuteness of judgment. Having constant occasion to recommend 
themselves and their goods, they acquire habits of the most obliging 
attention, and the most insinuating address. As in their peregrinations 
they have opportunity of contemplating the manners of various men and 

28 325 



326 NOTES. 

various cities, they become eminently skilled in the knowledge of the 
world. As they wander, each alone, through thinly-inhabited districts, 
they form habits of reflection and of sublime contemplation. "With all 
these qualifications, no wonder, that they should often be, in remote parts 
of the country, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors of manners ; and 
should contribute much to polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity 
of our peasantry. It is not more than twenty or thirty years since a young 
man going from any part of Scotland to England, of purpose to carry the 
pack, was considered as going to lead the life and acquire the fortune of 
a gentleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in that honorable line 
of employment, he returned with his acquisitions to his native country? 
he was regarded as a gentleman to all intents and purposes.' 

Heron's Journey in Scotland, Vol. i. p. 89. 

Note 3.— P. 87. 
• Lost in unsearchable Eternity P 

Since this paragraph was composed, I have read with so much pleasure, 
in Burnet's Theory of the Earth, a passage expressing corresponding 
sentiments, excited by objects of a similar nature, that I cannot forbear to 
transcribe it. 

'Siquod vero Natura nobis dedit spectaculum, in hac tell are, vere 
gratum, et philosopho dignum, id semel mini contigisse arbitror ; cum 
ex celsissima rupe speculabundus ad oram maris Mediterranei, hinc 
aequor caeruleum, illinc tractus Alpinos prospexi ; nihil quidem magis 
dispar aut dissimile, nee in suo genere, magis egregium et singulare. 
Hoc theatrum ego facile praetulerim Romanis cunctis, Graecisve ; atque 
id quod natura hie spectandum exhibet, scenicis ludis omnibus, aut 
amphitheatri certaminibus. Nahil hie elegans aut venostura, sed ingens 
et magniflcum, et quod placet magnitudine sua et quadam specie im- 
mensitatis. Hinc intuebar maris aequabilem superficiem, usque et usque 
diffusam, quantum maximum oculorum acies ferir potuit ; illinc disrup- 
tissimam terrse faciem, et vastas moles varie elevatas aut depressas, 
erectas, propendentes, reclinatas, coacervatas, omni situ inaequali et 
turbido. Placuit, ex hac parte, Naturae unitas et simplicitas, et inex- 
hausta quaedam planities ; ex altera, multiformis confusio magnorum 
corporum, et insanas rerum strages: quas cum intuebar, non urbis 
alicujus aut oppidi, sed confracti mundi rudera, ante oculos habere mihi 
visus sum. 

In singulis fere montibus erat aliquid insolens et mirabile, sed pras 
caeteris mihi placebat ilia, qua sedebam, rupes ; erat maxima et altissi- 
ma, et qua terrain respicicbat, molliori ascensu altitudinem suam dissim- 
ulabat: qui vero mare, horrendum prteceps, et quasi ad perpendiculum 
facta, instar parietis. Prasterea facies ilia marina adeo erat laevis ac 
uniformis (quod in rupibus aliquando observare licet) ac si scissa iuisset 
a summo ad iraura, in illo piano ; vel terrse motu aliquo, aut fulmine, 
divulsa. 

Ima pars rupis erat cava, recessusque habuit, et saxeos specus, euntes 
In vacuum montem ; sive natura pridem factos, sive exesos marl, et 



NOTES. 327 

undarum crebris ictibus : In hos enim cum impetu ruebant et fragore, 
sestuantis maris ductus ; quos iterum spumantes reddidit antrum, et quasi 
ab imo ventre evomuit. 

Dextrum latus montis erat praeruptum, aspero saxo et muda caute ; 
sinistrumnonadeo neglexerat Natura, arboribus utpote ornatum : et pro 
pe pedem montis rivus limpidae aquae prorupit ; qui cum vicinam vallem 
irrigaverat, lento motu serpens, et per varios maeandros, quasi ad pro- 
trahendam vitam, in magno mari absorptus subito periit. Denique in 
summo vertice promontorii, commode eminebat saxum, cui insidebam 
contemplabundus. Vale augusta sedes, Rege digna: Augusta rupes 
semper mihi memoranda !' P. 89. Telluris Theoria sacra, <$-c. Editio 
eecunda. 

Note 4.— P. 113. 
Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream! 

'A man is supposed to improve by going out into the World, by 
visiting London. Artificial man does ; he extends with his sphere ; but, 
alas ! that sphere is microscopic ; it is formed of minutiae, and he sur- 
renders his genuine vision to the artist, in order to embrace it in his ken. 
His bodily senses grow acute, even to barren and inhuman pruriency ; 
while his mental become proportionally obtuse. The reverse is the Man 
of Mind : he who is placed in the sphere of Nature and of God, might be 
a mock at Tattersall's and Brooks's, and a sneer _at St. James's : he would 
certainly be swallowed alive by the first Pizarro that crossed him : — But 
when he walks along the river of Amazons ; when he rests his eye on the 
unrivalled Andes ; when he measures the long and watered savannah ; 
or contemplates, from a sudden promontory, the distant, vast Pacific — 
and feels himself a freeman in this vast theatre, and commanding each 
ready produced fruit of this wilderness, and each progeny of this stream 
— his exaltation is not less than imperial. He is as gentle, too, as he i3 
great : his emotions of tenderness keep pace with his elevation of senti- 
ment ; for he says, ' These were made by a good Being, who, unsought 
by me, placed me here to enjoy them.' He becomes at once a child and a 
king. His mind is in himself; from hence he argues, and from hence he 
acts, and he argues unerringly, and acts magisterially : his mind in him- 
self is also in his God ; and therefore he loves, and therefore he soars.' — 
From the notes upon The Hurricane, a Poem, by William Gilbert. 

The Reader, I am sure, will thank me for the above quotation, which, 
though from a strange book, is one of the finest passages of modern 
English prose. 

Note 5.— P. 121. 

' ' Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
Earth to despise, 1 <$-c. 

See, upon this subject, Baxter's most interesting review of his own 
opinions and sentiments in the decline of life. It may be found (lately 
reprinted) in Dr. Wordsworth's Ecclesiastical Biography. 



328 NOTES. 



Note 6.— P. 123. 






c Alas! the endowment of immortal Power, 
Is matched unequally with custom, time,'' Src. 
This subject is treated at length in the ode— Intimations of Immor- 
tality. 

Note 7.— P. 127. 

' Knowing the heart of Man is set to be? Src. 
The passage quoted from Daniel is taken from a poem addressed to 
the Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, and the two last lines, 
printed in Italics, are by him translated from Seneca. The whole Poem 
is very beautiful. I will transcribe four stanzas from it, as they contain 
an admirable picture of the state of a wise Man's mind in a time of pub- 
lic commotion. 

Nor is he moved with all the thunder-cracks 
Of tyrant's threats, or with the surly brow 
Of Power, that proudly sits on others' crimes; 
Chai-ged with more crying sins than those he checks. 
The storms of sad confusion that may grow 
Up in the present for the coming times, 
Appal not him ; that hath no side at all, 
But of himself, and knows the worst can fall. 



Although his heart (so near allied to earth) 
Cannot but pity the perplexed state 
Of troublous and distressed mortality, 
That thus make way unto the ugly birth 
Of their own sorrows, and do still beget 
Affliction upon Imbecility : 
Yet seeing thus the course of things must run, 
He looks thereon not strange, but as fore-done. 

And whilst distraught ambition compasses, 
And is encompassed, while as craft deceives, 
And is deceived : whilst man doth ransack man, 
And builds on blood, and rises by distress; 
And th' Inheritance of desolation leaves 
To great-expecting hopes : He looks thereon, 
As from the shore of peace, with unwet eye, 
And bears no venture in Impiety. 

Thus, Lady, fares that man that hath prepared 
A rest for his desires ; and sees all things 
Beneath him ; and hath learned this book of man, 
Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
The best of glory with her sufferings: 
By whom, I see, you labor all you can 
To plant your heart ! and set your thoughts as ueai 
His glorious mansion as your power can bear. 






NOTES. 329 

Note 8.— P. 182. 

' Or rather, as we stand on holy earth 
And have the dead around us? 

Leo. You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eight-score winters past, 

With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, 

Perhaps I might ; 

By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 

We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round ; 

Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 

See The Brothers. 

Note 9.— P. 192. 

i And suffering Nature grieved that one should die.'' 

Southey's Retrospect. 

Note 10— P. 194. 
* And whence that tribute ? wherefore these regards ?' 

The sentiments and opinions here uttered are in unison with those 
expressed in the following Essay upon Epitaphs, which was furnished by 
me for Mr. Coleridge's periodical work, The Friend ; and as they are dic- 
tated by a spirit congenial to that which pervades this and the two 
succeeding books, the sympathizing reader will not be disappointed to 
see the Essay here annexed. 

ESSAY UPON EPITAPHS. 

It needs scarcely be said, that an Epitaph presupposes a Monument, 
upon which it is to be engraven. Almost all nations have wished that 
certain external signs should point out the places where their dead are 
interred. Among savage tribes unacquainted with letters this has most- 
ly been done either by rude stones placed near the graves, or by mounds 
of earth raised over them. This custom proceeded obviously from 
twof jld desire ; first, to guard the remains of the deceased from irreve* 
ent approach or from savage violation : and, secondly, to preserve the* 
memory. ' Never any,' says Camden, 'neglected burial but some savaj. 
nations ; as the Bactrians, which cast their dead to the dogs ; some varlet 
philosophers, as Diogenes, who desired to be devoured of fishes ; some 
dissolute courtiers, as Maecenas, who was wont to say, Non tumulum euro ; 
sepelit natura relictos. 

I'm careless of a grave :— Nature her dead will save.' 

As soon as nations had learned the use of letters, epitaphs were in- 
scribed upon these monuments ; in order that their intention might be 
more surely and adequately fulfilled. I have derived monuments and 
28* 



330 NOTES. 

epitaphs from two sources of feeling : but these do in fact resolve them- 
selves into one. The invention of epitaphs, Weever, in his Discourse of 
Funeral Monuments, says rightly, ' proceeded from the presage or fore- 
feeling of immortality, implanted in all men naturally, and is referred to 
the scholars of Linus the^heban poet, who flourished about the year of 
the world two thousand seven hundred ; who first bewailed this Linus 
their Master, when he was slain, in doleful verses, then called of him 
CElina, afterwards Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at burials, after 
engraved upon the sepulchres.' 

And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of immortality in 
the human soul, Man could never have had awakened in him the desire 
to live in the remembrance of his fellows : mere love, or the yearning of 
kind towards kind, could not have produced it. The dog or horse 
perishes in the field, or in the stall, by the side of his companions, and is 
incapable of anticipating the sorrow with which his surrounding associates 
shall bemoan his death, or pine for his loss ; he cannot pre-conceive this 
regret, he can form no thought of it ; and therefore cannot possibly have 
a desire to leave such regret or remembrance behind him. Add to the 
principle of love which exists in the inferior animals, the faculty of reason 
which exists in Man alone ; will the conjunction of these account for the 
desire ? Doubtless it is a necessary consequence of this conjunction ; yet 
not I think as a direct result, but only to be come at through an interme- 
diate thought, viz. that of an intimation or assurance within us, that some 
part of our nature is imperishable. At least the precedence, in order of 
birth, of one feeling to the other, is unquestionable. If we look back 
upon the days of childhood, we shall find that the time is not in remem- 
brance when, with respect to our own individual Being, the mind was 
without this assurance : whereas, the wish to be remembered by our 
friends or kindred after death, or even in absence, is, as we shall dis- 
cover, a sensation that does not form itself till the social feelings have 
been developed, and the reason has connected itself with a wide range 
of objects. Forlorn, and cut off from communication with the best part 
of his nature, must that man be, who should derive the sense of immor- 
tality, as it exists in the mind of a child, from the same unthinking gaiety 
or liveliness of animal spirits with which the lamb in the meadow, or 
any other irrational creature is endowed ; who should ascribe it, in short, 
to blank ignorance in the child ; to an inability arising from the imper- 
fect state of his faculties to come, in any point of his being, into contact 
with a notion of death ; or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what had 
been instilled into him ! Has such an unfolder of the mysteries of nature* 
though he may have forgotten his former self, ever noticed the early, 
obstinate, and unappeasable inquisitiveness of children upon the subject 
of origination ? This single fact proves outwardly the monstrousness of 
those suppositions: for, if we had no direct external testimony that the 
minds of very young children meditate feelingly upon death and immor- 
tality, these inquiries, which we all know they are perpetually making 
concerning the whence, do necessarily include correspondent habits of 
interrogation concerning the whither. Origin and tendency are notions 
inseparably co-relative. Never did a child stand by the side of a running 
stream, pondering within himself what power was the feeder of the 



NOTES. 331 

perpetual current, from what never-wearied sources the body of water 
was supplied, but he must have been inevitably propelled to follow this 
question by another: "Towards what abyss is it in progress ? what re- 
ceptacle can contain the mighty influx ?" And the spirit of the answer 
must have been, though the word might be sea or ocean, accompanied 
perhaps with an image gathered from a map, or from the real object hi 
nature —these might have been the letter, but the spirit of the answer 
must have been as inevitably,— a receptacle without bounds or di- 
mensions; — nothing less than infinity. We may, then, be justified in 
asserting, that the sense of immortality, if not a co-existent and twin 
birth with Reason, is among the earliest of her offspring : and we may 
further assert, that from these conjoined, and under their countenance, 
the human affections are gradually formed and opened out. This is not 
the place to enter into the recesses of these investigations ; but the 
subject requires me here to make a plain avowal, that, for my own part, 
it is to me inconceivable, that the sympathies of love towards each other, 
which grow with our growth, could ever attain any new strength, or even 
preserve the old, after we had received from the outward senses the 
impression of death, and were in the habit of having that impression 
daily renewed and its accompanying feeling brought home to ourselves, 
and to those we love : if the same were not counteracted by those com- 
munications with our internal Being, which are anterior to all these 
experiences, and with which revelation coincides, and has through that 
coincidence alone (for otherwise it could not possess it) a power to affect 
us. I confess, with me the conviction is absolute, that, if the impression 
and sense of death were not thus counterbalanced, such a hollowness 
would pervade the whole system of things, such a want of correspon- 
dence and consistency, a disproportion so astounding betwixt means and 
ends, that there could be no repose, no joy. Were we to grow up un- 
fostered by this genial warmth, a frost would chill the spirit, so penetrat- 
ing and powerful, that there could be no motions of the life of love ; and 
infinitely less could we have any wish to be remembered after we had 
passed away from a world in which each man had moved about like a 
shadow.— If, then, in a creature endowed with the faculties of foresight 
and reason, the social affections could not have unfolded themselves 
uncountenanced by the faith that Man is an immortal being; and if, 
consequently, neither could the individual dying have had a desire to 
survive in the remembrance of his fellows, nor on their side could they 
have felt a wish to preserve for future times vestiges of the departed , 
it follows, as a final inference, that without the belief in immortality, 
wherein these several desires originate, neither monuments nor epitaphs, 
in affectionate or laudatory commemoration of the deceased, could have 
existed in the world. 

Simonides, it is related, upon landing in a strange country, found the 
corse of an unknown person lying by the sea-side ; he buried it, and was 
honored throughout Greece for the piety of that act. Another ancient 
Philosopher, chancing to fix his eyes upon a dead body, regarded the 
same with slight, if not with contempt ; saying, " See the shell of the 
flown bird !" But it is not to be supposed that the moral and tender- 
hearted Simonides was incapable of the lofty movements of thought, to 



332 NOTES 






which that other Sage gave way at the moment while his soul was intent 
only upon the indestructible being ; nor, on the other hand, that he, in 
whose sight a lifeless human body was of no more value than the worth- 
less shell from which the living fowl had departed, would not, in a 
different mood of mind, have been affected by those earthly considera- 
tions which had incited the philosophic Poet to the performance of that 
pious duty. And with regard to this latter we may be assured that, if he 
had been destitute of the capability of communing with the more ex- 
alted thoughts that appertain to human nature, he would have cared no 
more for the corse of the stranger than for the dead body of a seal or 
porpoise which might have been cast up by the waves. We respect the 
corporeal frame of Man, not merely because it is the habitation of a rational, 
but of an immortal Soul. Each of these Sages was in sympathy with the 
best feelings of our nature ; feelings which, though they seem opposite 
to each other, have another and a finer connection than that of contrast. 
— It is a connection formed through the subtle progress by which, both 
in the natural and the moral world, qualities pass insensibly into their 
contraries, and things revolve upon each other. As, in sailing upon the 
orb of this planet, a voyage towards the regions where the sun sets, 
conducts gradually to the quarter where we have been accustomed to 
behold it come forth at its rising ; and, in like maimer, a voyage towards 
the east, the birth-place in our imagination of the morning, leads finally 
to the quarter where the sun is last seen when he departs from our eyes ; 
so the contemplative Soul, travelling in the direction of mortality, ad van- 
ces to the country of everlasting life ; and, in like manner, may she 
continue to explore those cheerful tracts, till she is brought back, for her 
advantage and benefit, to the land of transitory things — of sorrow and of 
tears. 

On a midway point, therefore, which commands the thoughts and 
feelings of the two Sages whom we have represented in contrast, does 
the Author of that species of composition, the laws of which it is our 
present purpose to explain, take his stand. Accordingly, recurring to 
the twofold desire of guarding the remains of the deceased and preserv- 
ing their memory, it may be said that a sepulchral monument is a tribute 
to a man as a human being ; and that an epitaph (in the ordinary mean- 
ing attached to the word) includes this general feeling and something 
more ; and is a record to preserve the memory of the dead, as a tribute 
1ue to his individual worth, for a satisfaction to the sorrowing hearts of 
the survivors, and for the common benefit of the living : which record is 
to be accomplished, not in a general manner, but, where it can, in close 
connection with the bodily remains of the deceased : and these, it may be 
added, among the modern nations of Europe, are deposited within, or 
contiguous to, their places of worship. In ancient times, as is well 
known, it was the custom to bury the dead beyond the walls of towns 
and cities ; and among the Greeks and Romans they were frequently in- 
terred by the way-sides. 

I could here pause with pleasure, and invite the Reader to indulge 
with me in contemplation of the advantages which must have attended 
6uch a practice We might ruminate upon the beauty which the monu- 



NOTES. 333 

ments, thus placed, must have borrowed from the surrounding images 
of nature — from the trees, the wild flowers, from a stream running 
perhaps within sight or hearing, from the beaten road stretching its 
weary length hard by. Many tender similitudes must these objects have 
presented to the mind of the traveller leaning upon one of the tombs, or 
reposing in the coolness of its shade, whether he had halted from weari- 
ness or in compliance with the invitation, 'Pause, Traveller!' so often 
found upon the monuments. And to its epitaph also must have been 
supplied strong appeals to visible appearances or immediate impressions, 
lively and affecting analogies of life as a journey— death as a sleep over- 
coming the tired wayfarer — of misfortune as a storm that falls suddenly 
upon him— of beauty as a flower that passeth away, or of innocent 
pleasure as one that may be gathered — of virtue that standeth firm as a 
rock against the beating waves ; — of hope ' undermined insensibly like 
the poplar by the side of the river that has fed it,' or blasted in a moment 
like a pine-tree by the stroke of lightning upon the mountain-top— of 
admonitions and heart-stirring remembrances, like a refreshing breeze 
that comes without warning, or the taste of the waters of an unexpected 
fountain. These, and similar suggestions, must have given, formerly, to 
the language of the senseless stone a voice enforced and endeared by the 
benignity of that nature with which it was in unison. — We, in modern 
times, have lost much of these advantages ; and they are but in a small 
degree counterbalanced to the inhabitants of large towns and cities, by 
the custom of depositing the dead within, or contiguous to, their places 
of worship ; however splendid or imposing may be the appearance of 
those edifices, or however interesting or salutary the recollections asso- 
ciated with them. Even were it not true that tombs lose their monitory 
virtue when thus obtruded upon the notice of men occupied with the 
cares of the world, and too often sullied and defiled by those cares, yet 
still, when death is in our thoughts, nothing can make amends for the 
want of the soothing influences of nature, and for the absence of those 
types of renovation and decay, which the fields and woods offer to the 
notice of the serious and contemplative mind. To feel the force of this 
sentiment, let a man only compare in imagination the unsightly manner 
in which our monuments are crowded together in the busy, noisy, un- 
clean, and almost grassless church-yard of a large town, with the still 
seclusion of a Turkish cemetery, in some remote place ; and yet further 
sanctified by the grove of cypress in which it is embosomed. Thoughts 
In the same temper as these have already been expressed with true sen- 
sibility by an ingenuous Poet of the present day. The subject of his 
poem is " All Saints Church, Derby :" he has been deploring the forbid- 
ding and unseemly appearance of its burial-ground, and uttering a wish, 
that in past times the practice had been adopted of interring the inhabit- 
ants of large towns in the country. — 

' Then, in some rural, calm, sequestered spot, 
Where healing Nature her benignant look 
Ne'er changes, save at that lorn season, when, 
With tresses drooping o'er her sable stole, 
She yearly mourns the mortal doom of man, 



334 NOTES. 

Her noblest work, (so Israel's virgins erst, 
With annual moan upon the mountains wept 
Their fairest gone,) there in that rural scene, 
So placid, so congenial to the wish 
The Christian feels, of peaceful rest within 
The silent grave, I would have stayed : 
***** 

— wandered forth, where the cold dew of heaven 

Lay on the humbler graves around, what time 

The pale moon gazed upon the turfy mounds, 

Pensive, as though like me, in lonely muse, 

'T were brooding on the dead inhumed beneath. 

There while with him, the holy man of Uz, 

O'er human destiny I sympathized, 

Counting the long, long periods prophecy 

Decrees to roll, ere the great day arrives 

Of resurrection, oft the blue-eyed Spring 

Had met me with her blossoms, as the Dove, 

Of old, returned with olive leaf, to cheer 

The Patriarch mourning o'er a world destroy'd : 

And I would bless her visit ; for to me 

'T is sweet to trace the consonance that links 

As one, the works of Nature and the word 

Of God.' 

John Edwards. 

A village church-yard, lying as it does in the lap of nature, may indeed 
be most favorably contrasted with that of a town of crowded population ; 
and sepulture therein combines many of the best tendencies which 
belong to the mode practised by the Ancients, with others peculiar to 
itself. The sensations of pious cheerfulness, which attend the celebra- 
tion of the Sabbath-day in rural places, are profitably chastised by the 
sight of the graves of kindred and friends, gathered together in that 
general home towards which the thoughtful yet happy spectators them- 
selves are journeying. Hence a parish-church, in the stillness of the 
country, is a visible centre of a community of the living and the dead ; 
a point to which are habitually referred the nearest concerns of both. 

As, then, both in cities and in villages, the dead are deposited in close 
connection with our places of worship, with us the composition of 
an epitaph naturally turns, still more than among the nations of antiqui 
ty, upon the most serious and solemn affections of the human mind ; 
upon departed worth — upon personal or social sorrow and admiration 
— upon religion, individual and social— upon time, and upon eternity. 
Accordingly, it suffices, in ordinary cases, to secure a composition of this 
kind from censure, that it contain nothing that shall shock or be incon- 
sistent with this spirit. But, to entitle an epitaph to praise, more than 
this is necessary. It ought to contain some thought or feeling belonging 
to the mortal or immortal part of our nature touchingly expressed ; and 
if that be done, however general or even trite the sentiment may be, 
every man of pure mind will read the words with pleasure and gratitude. 



NOTES. 335 

A husband bewails a wife ; a parent breathes a sigh of disappointed 
hope over a lost child ; a son utters a sentiment of filial reverence for a 
departed father or mother ; a friend perhaps inscribes an encomium re- 
cording the companionable qualities, or the solid virtues, of the tenant 
of the grave, whose departure has left a sadness upon his memory. This 
and a pious admonition to the living, and a humble expression of Chris- 
tian confidence in immortality, is the language of a thousand church- 
yards ; and it does not often happen that anything, in a greater degree 
discriminate or appropriate to the dead or to the living, is to be found in 
them. This want of discrimination has been ascribed, by Dr. Johnson, 
in his Essay upon the epitaphs of Pope, to two causes ; first, the scanti- 
ness of the objects of human praise ; and, secondly, the want of variety 
in the characters of men ; or, to use his own words, ' to the fact, that the 
greater part of mankind have no character at all.' Such language may 
be holden without blame among the generalities of common conversa- 
tion ; but does not become a critic and a moralist speaking seriously 
upon a serious subject. The objects of admiration in human nature are 
not scanty, but abundant ; and every man has a character of his own, to 
the eye that has skill to perceive it. The real cause of the acknowledged 
want of discrimination in sepulchral memorials is this : That to ana- 
lyze the characters of others, especially of those whom we love, is not a 
common or natural employment of men at any time. We are not 
anxious unerringly to understand the constitution of the minds of those 
who have soothed, who have cheered, who have supported us ; with 
whom we have been long and daily pleased or delighted. The affections 
are their own justification. The light of love in our hearts is a satisfac- 
tory evidence that there is a body of worth in the minds of our friends 
or kindred, whence that light has proceeded. We shrink from the 
thought of placing their merits and defects to be weighed against each 
other in the nice balance of pure intellect ; nor do we find much tempta- 
tion to detect the shades by which a good quality or virtue is discrimin- 
ated in them from an excellence known by the same general name as it 
exists in the mind of another : and, least of all, do we incline to these 
refinements when under the pressure of sorrow, admiration, or regret, or 
when actuated by any of those feelings which incite men to prolong the 
memory of their friends and kindred, by records placed in the bosom of 
the all-uniting and equalizing receptacle of the dead. 

The first requisite, then, in an Epitaph is, that it should speak, in a 
tone that shall sink into the heart, the general language of humanity 
as connected with the subject of death — the source from which an epi- 
taph proceeds— of death, and of life. To be born and to die are the two 
points in which all men feel themselves to be in absolute coincidence. 
This general language may be uttered so strikingly as to entitle an epi- 
taph to high praise ; yet it cannot lay claim to the highest, unless other 
excellencies be superadded. Passing through all intermediate steps we 
will attempt to determine at once what these excellencies are, and 
wherein consists the perfection of this species of composition. — It will 
be found to lie in a due proportion of the common or universal feeling of 
b amanity to sensations excited by a distinct and clear conception, con- 



336 NOTES. 

veyed to the reader's mind, of the individual, whose death is deplored 
and whose memory is to be preserved ; at least of his character as, after 
death, it appeared to those who loved him, and lament his loss. The 
general sympathy ought to be quickened, provoked, and diversified, by 
particular thoughts, actions, images,— circumstances of age, occupation, 
manner of life, prosperity which the deceased had known, or adversity 
to which he had been subject ; and these ought to be bound together 
and solemnized into one harmony by the general sympathy. The two 
powers should temper, restrain, and exalt each other. The reader ought 
to know who and what the man was whom he is called upon to think of 
with interest. A distinct conception should be given (implicitly where 
it can, rather than explicitly) of the individual lamented. But the 
writer of an epitaph is not an anatomist, who dissects the internal frame 
of the mind ; he is not even a painter, who executes a portrait at leisure 
and in entire tranquillity : his delineation, we must remember, is per- 
formed by the side of the grave ; and, what is more, the grave of one 
whom he loves and admires. What purity and brightness is that virtue 
clothed in, the image of which must no longer bless our living eyes! 
The character of a deceased friend or beloved kinsman is not seen, no — 
nor ought to be seen, otherwise than as a tree through a tender haze or 
a luminous mist, that spiritualizes, and beautifies it ; that takes away, 
indeed, but only to the end that the parts which are not abstracted may 
appear more dignified and lovely; may impress and affect the more. 
(Shall we say, then, that this is not truth, not a faithful image ; and that, 
accordingly, the purposes of commemoration cannot be answered ? — It 
is truth, and of the highest order ; for, though doubtless things are not 
apparent which did exist ; yet, the object being looked at through this 
medium, parts and proportions are brought into distinct view which be- 
fore had been only imperfectly or unconsciously seen : it is truth hallow- 
ed by love — the joint offspring of the worth of the dead and the affections 
of the living ! This may easily be brought to the test. Let one, whose 
eyes have been sharpened by personal hostility to discover what was 
amiss in the character of a good man, hear the tidings of his death, and 
what a change is wrought in a moment ! Enmity melts away ; and, as 
it disappears, unsightliness, disproportion, and deformity, vanish ; and, 
through the influence of commiseration, a harmony of love and beauty 
succeeds. Bring such a man to the tombstone on which shall be inscrib- 
ed an epitaph on his adversary, composed in the spirit which we havo 
recommended. Would he turn from it as from an idle tale ? No ; — the 
thoughtful look, the sigh, and perhaps the involuntary tear, would testify 
that it had a sane, a generous, and good meaning; and that on the 
writer's mind had remained an impression which was a true abstract of 
the character of the deceased ; that his gifts and graces were remembered 
in the simplicity in which they ought to be remembered. The oompo 
sition and quality of the mind of a virtuous man, contemplated by the 
side of the grave where his body is mouldering, ought to appear, and be 
felt as something midway between what he was on earth walking about 
with his living frailties, and what he may be presumed to be as a Spirit 
in heaven. 



NOTES. 337 

It suffices, therefore, that ihe trunk an I the main branches of the worth 
of the deceased be boldly and unaffectedly represented. Any further 
detail, minutely and scrupulously pursued, especially if this be done 
with laborious and antithetic discriminations, must inevitably frustrate 
its own purpose ; forcing the passing Spectator to this conclusion, — either 
that the dead did not possess the merits ascribed to him, or that they 
who have raised a monument to his memory, and must therefore be 
supposed to have been closely connected with him, were incapable of 
perceiving those merits ; or at least during the act of composition had 
lost sight of them ; for, the understanding having been so busy in its 
petty occupation, how could the heart of the mourner be other than 
cold ? and in either of these cases, whether the fault be on the part of 
the buried- person or the survivors, the memorial is unaffecting and 
profitless. 

Much better is it to fall short in discrimination than to pursue it too 
far, or to labor it unfeelingly. For in no place are we so much disposed 
to dwell upon those points, of nature and condition, wherein all men 
resemble each other, as in the temple where the universal Father is wor- 
shipped, or by the side of the grave which gathers all human Beings to 
itself, and ' equalizes the lofty and the low.' We suffer and we weep 
with the same heart ; we love and are anxious for one another in one 
spirit ; our hopes look to the same quarter ; and the virtues by which we 
are all to be furthered and supported, as patience, meekness, good-will, 
justice, temperance, and temperate desires, are in an equal degree the 
concern of us all. Let an Epitaph, then, contain at least these acknowl- 
edgments to our common nature ; nor let the sense of their importance 
be sacrificed to a balance of opposite qualities or minute distinctions in 
individual character : which if they do not, (as will for the most part be 
the case,) when examined, resolve themselves into a trick of words, 
will, even when they are true and just, for the most part be grievously 
out of place ; for, as it is probable that few only have explored these 
intricacies of human nature, so can the tracing of them be interesting only 
to a few. But an epitaph is not a proud writing, shut up for the studious : 
it is exposed to all — to the wise and the most ignorant ; it is condescend- 
ing, perspicuous, and lovingly solicits regard ; its story and admonitions 
are brief, that the thoughtless, the busy, and the indolent, may not be 
deterred, nor the impatient tired : the stooping old man cons the engraven 
record like a second horn-book ; — the child is proud that he can read it ; 
— and the stranger is introduced through its mediation to the company of 
a friend : it is concerning all, and for all : — in the church-yard it is open 
to the day ; the sun looks down upon the stone, and the rains of heaven 
beat against it. 

Yet, though the writer who would excite sympathy is bound in this 
case, more than in any other, to give proof that he himself has been 
moved, it is to be remembered, that to raise a monument is a sober and 
a retlective act ; that the inscription which it bears is intended to be per- 
manent, and for universal perusal; and that, for this reason, the thoughts 
and feelings expressed should be permanent also— liberated from that 
weakness and anguish of sorrow which is in nature transitory, and which, 
with instinctive decency, retires from notice. The passions should be 

29 



333 NOTES. 

subdued, the emotions controlled ; strong, indeed, but nothing ungoverna- 
ble or wholly involuntary. Seemliness requires this, and truth requires it 
also : for how can the narrator otherwise be trusted? Moreover, a grave 
is a tranquillizing object : resignation in course of time springs up from it 
as naturally as the wild flowers, besprinkling the turf with which it may 
be covered, or gathering round the monument by which it is defended. 
The very form and substance of the monument which has received the 
inscription, and the appearance of the letters, testifying with what a slow 
and laborious hand they must have been engraven, might seem to re- 
proach the author who had given way upon this occasion to transports 
of mind, or to quick turns of conflicting passion; though the same 
might constitute the life and beauty of a funeral oration or elegiac poem. 

These sensations and judgments, acted upon perhaps unconsciously, 
have been one of the main causes why epitaphs so often personate the 
deceased, and represent him as speaking from his own tomb-stone. The 
departed Mortal is introduced telling you himself that his pains are gone ; 
that a state of rest is come; and he conjures you to weep for him no 
longer. He admonishes with the voice of one experienced in the vanity 
of those affections which are confined to earthly objects, and gives a ver- 
dict like a superior Being, performing the office of a judge, who has no 
temptations to mislead him, and whose decision cannot but be dispas- 
sionate. Thus is death disarmed of its sting, and affliction unsubstan- 
tialized. By this tender fiction, the survivors bind themselves to a seda- 
te,- sorrow, and employ the intervention of tV imagination in order that 
the reason may speak her own language earlier than she would other- 
wise have been e.iabled to do. This shadowy interposition also harmo- 
niously unites the two worlds of the living and the dead by their appro- 
priate affections. And it may be observed, that here we have an 
additional proof of the propriety with which sepulchral inscriptions were 
referred to the consciousness of immortality as their primal source. 

I do not speak with a wish to recommend that an epitaph should be 
cast in this mould preferably to the still more common one, in which 
what is said comes from the survivors directly; but rather to point out 
how natural those feelings arc which have induced men, in all states and 
ranks of society, so frequently to adopt this m ide. And this I have done 
chiefly in order that the laws, which ought to govern the composition of 
the other, may be better understood. This lattter mode, namely, that in 
which the sun Ivors speak in their own persons, seems to me upon the 
whole greatly preferable: as it admits a wider range of notices; and, 
above all, because, excluding the fiction which is the groundwork of the 
other, it rests upon a inure solid basis. 

Enough has been said to convey our notion of a perfect epitaph ; but 
it must be borne in mind that one is meant which will best answer the 
general ends of that species of composition. According to the course 
pointed out, the worth of private life, through all varieties of situation 
and character, will be most honorably and profitably preserved in 
memory. Nor would the model recommended less suit public men, in 
all instances save of those persons who by the greatness of their services 
in the employments of peace or war, or by the surpassing excellence of their 
works in art, literature, or science, have made themselves not only univer- 



NOTES. 339 

sally known, but have filled the heart of their country with everlasting 
gr titude. Yet I must here pause to correct myself. In describing the 
gener il tenor of thought which epitaphs ought to hold, I have omitted 
to say, that if it be the actions of a man, or even some one conspicuous 
or beneficial act of local or general utility, which have distinguished him, 
and excited a desire that he should be remembered, then, of course, 
ought the atteution to be directed chiefly to those actions or that act : 
an I such sentiments dwelt upon as naturally arise out of them or it. 
Having made this necessary distinction, I proceed. — The mighty bene- 
factors of mankind, as they are not only known by the immediate 
Survivors, but wu l continue to be known familiarly to latest posterity, 
do not stand in need of biographic sketches, in such a place ; nor of 
delineations of character to individualize them. This is already done by 
their Works, in the memories of men. Their naked names, and a grand 
comprehensive sentiment of civic gratitude, patriotic love, or human 
admiiatii n — or the utterance of some elementary principle most essen- 
tial in the constitution of true virtue ; — or a declaration touching that 
pious humility and self-abasement, which are ever most profound as 
minds are most susceptible of genuine exaltation — or an intuition, com- 
municated in adequate words, of the sublimity of intellectual power ; — 
these are the only tribute which can here be paid — the only offering that 
upon such an altar would not be unworthy. 

' What needs my Shakspeare for his honored bones 
The labor of an age in piled stones, 
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid 
Under a starry-pointing pyramid? 
Dear Son of Memory, great Heir of Fame, 
«• What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? 

Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
Hast built thyself a livelong monument, 
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.' 

Note 11.— P. 198. 
'•And spires whose ' silent fin ger points to Heaven.'''' 
An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches in flat coun- 
tries with spire-steeples, which, as they cannot be referred to any other 
object, point as with silent finger to the sky and stars, and sometimes, when 
they reflect the brazen light of a rich though rainy sunset, appear like a 
pyramid of flame burning heaven-ward. See "The Friend," by S. T. 
Coleridge, No. 14, p. 223. 

Note 12.— 259. 
' That Sycamore, which annually holds 
Within its shade as in a stately tent.'' 

'This Sycamore oft musical with Bees; 
Such Tents the Patriarchs loved.' 

5. T. Coleridge. 



340 NOTES 



Note 13.— P. 271. 



' Perish the roses and the flowers of kings.'' 
The 'Transit gloria mundi' is finely expressed in the Introduction 
to the Foundation-charters of some of the ancient Abbeys. Some ex- 
pressions here used are taken from that of the Abbey of St. Mary's, 
Furness, the translation of which is as follows : — 

'Considering every day the uncertainty of life, that the roses and 
flowers of Kings, Emperors, and Dukes, and the crowns and palms of 
all the great, wither and decay; and that all things, with an uninter- 
rupted course, tend to dissolution and death : I therefore,' &c. 

Note 14.— P. 281. 

' Earth has lent 



Her waters^ Air her breezes? 

In treating this subject, it was impossible not to recollect, with grati- 
tude, the pleasing picture, which, in his Poem of the Fleece, the excellent 
and amiable .Dyer has given of the influences of manufacturing industry 
upon the face of this Island. He wrote at a time when machinery was 
first beginning to be introduced, and his benevolent heart prompted him 
to augur from it nothing but good. Truth has compelled me to dwell 
upon the baneful effects arising out of an ill-regidated and excessive ap- 
plication of powers so admirable in themselves. 

Note 15.— P. 309. 

' Binding herself by Statute.'' 

The discovery of Dr. Bell affords marvellous facilities for carrying th% 

into effect; and it is impossible to overrate the benefit which might 

accrue to humanity from the universal application of this simple engine 

under an enlightened and conscientious government. 



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